AbraCadaver
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Set mid season 4. In 1987, John has a bad case of zombies, perhaps his worst yet. Meanwhile, in 2009, his boys discover that while some witches do no harm, objects in the rear view memory may appear hazier than they are. And they carry shovels.
1. Head Start

**ONE**

**Head Start**

**Pahrump, Nevada. 1987**

.

John killed the engine and turned to his left, looking at his two boys. He eyed the smaller one apprehensively, slumbering comfortably. He adjusted his gaze to the older one.

"Right. Now I'll only be gone a few minutes, in that shop across the way. Think you can look after Sammy till I get back?" he asked innocently.

Dean turned his head from the dark passenger window next to him. He looked at his father, then down between them, taking in the snoozing sibling confidently.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Good boy," John nodded, reaching a hand out and tousling the mousy hair. "Don't get out of the car for anything, and don't let him play with any of the switches."

"Yes sir," Dean sighed, wholly resigned.

John's smile slipped a little. "I'll be right back."

"Yup."

John sniffed and opened the car door, sliding out and shutting it firmly. He bent down and tapped on the window, attracting Dean's attention. The young boy looked over. John smiled at him encouragingly. Dean had a half-second to realise it was meant for him, and this time it was for free. At least, he wasn't aware of anything he'd done for such a reward. Then it was gone, along with his father, into the night.

He waited, counting the seconds, and when he reached sixty he smiled. He leaned forward, dislodging Sam from his left arm as he snapped on the radio quietly. There was a cassette tape stuck out of it and he automatically pushed it in. It thunked in with a very satisfying jolt of plastic and moving parts, and then some music he vaguely recognised as his father's favourite form of relaxation came streaming quietly from the front speakers.

Sam mumbled something and grasped his elder brother's arm tightly, squirming. Dean looked at him and sat back, waiting for him to get comfortable. But Sam opened an eye and looked around blearily, turning right round to look at the driver's seat.

"Daddy?" he murmured, finding it empty. "Daddy?" His weary little face turned red and his breathing started to hitch in his throat.

"Sammy," Dean said quickly, grabbing his hand to distract him, "Sammy, he's coming back. He won't be long."

"Daddy!" Sam wailed, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging wide open in a manoeuvre that only really small children can pull off without hurting themselves. Dean looked around, first out of the front window and then his side one quickly.

"Sammy, please shut up," he said warily, eyeing the darkness outside.

Something made the hair on the back of his neck want to stand up. The longer Sam's shrill wailing went on, the more Dean realised the darkness had its own strange, silent roar. Not really knowing why, he found it unnerving.

"I don't think we should be noisy round here, Sammy," Dean said fearfully, fighting a rising tide of disquiet. "I don't think we should be round here at all."

Sam continued to bawl and Dean felt an icy chill go up his spine. His eyes darted from his side window to the windscreen.

_There's something out there watching us but it ain't Dad_.

He kept staring, but his hands went out to Sam in slow motion. Sam wailed and sobbed, but Dean hardly heard. He put his hands under his baby brother's arms and lifted him slowly, all the while staring over his head to the windscreen. He sat him on his lap and Sam immediately squirmed round to throw his arms round his neck and cling on for dear life. He thrust his wet, snotty face into his throat and continued to wail.

"Sammy, really, you gotta be quiet," Dean whispered hoarsely, the hair on the back of his neck now stiffening upright in patent alarm. Sam hiccupped and his sobs became noisy breathing instead. "That's it, see? Crying don't change anything, right?" he added with forced cheer, moving his gaze to the side window. He wrapped an arm round his brother and tried to shake off the feeling of being watched.

Sam gradually stopped hiccupping, as if he too were listening intently. Dean stared relentlessly into the night.

_This is a long couple of minutes_, he couldn't help thinking. _C'mon Dad, where are you?_

His brother's head fell slightly, proof he was asleep, and Dean turned to the door. He pushed the knob down and locked it. He lifted Sam slightly, shifting them along the bench seat to reach the driver's door.

He pushed the knob down and swallowed, looking out again.

Something creaked to his left. His head snapped round to look out of the driver's window. He realised he was holding his breath and made himself let it go. There was a knock on the boot lid and he jumped, unconsciously gripping more tightly to Sam. He could not bring himself to turn his head when he heard the slight squeak of something sharp against paintwork.

He slid down in the seat silently until his head was lower than the back. He held his breath, counting the seconds and closing his eyes.

He felt Sam shift. Dean opened his eyes quickly, finding his younger brother watching him with interest.

"Whatcha doin'?" Sam asked drowsily.

"Uh - hiding from Dad," Dean said quickly. "We gotta be real quiet and hide down here. When he comes back it'll be this big surprise. Ok, Sammy?"

"Big suppise?"

"Big surprise. Ok?"

"Okie-dokie," Sam chirped. He lowered his forehead and proceeded to butt Dean in the chest on each excited syllable: "Oh-kie-doh-kie!" he giggled.

Dean put a hand up and slapped it over his mouth. Sam struggled and looked up at him, all of his righteous indignation in his little eyebrows.

"Quit it!" Dean hissed. Sam's face changed as Dean let go of his mouth. He sniffed and his face turned pale, nervous. "What now?" Dean demanded edgily.

"You're scared," Sam whined. "I don't like it. _I'm_ scared."

"I am _not_ scared. I'm…" Dean searched his eight year old brain for a good alternative. "I'm… worried Dad's gonna hear you."

"No," Sam said quickly, shaking his shaggy head, "you're scared and I don't like it. I want Daddy."

"He's coming, Sammy. Just wait."

"I wan' him now!" he whined.

"Shush!"

"No fair! I want--"

There was an unearthly squeal. Something flung itself up against the driver's window.

Sam screamed blue murder. He clutched at his brother. Dean was already shouting in fear. He grabbed Sam and scrabbled over to the passenger side. He looked at the window. He found the head and shoulders of someone grey and splattered with blood. They clawed at the glass. They squealed and growled.

There was another slam from behind Dean. He jumped about four inches off the seat. He turned instinctively. He yelled for his life as another grey and red man scrabbled at the window. Sam screeched in absolute fear. Dean grasped his hair and turned his head forcefully into his front, effectively blocking his vision. He heard himself screaming in horror. He shifted them both into the middle of the seat.

The car rocked as the people outside pushed and hissed. Dean closed his eyes and made sure he had a tight hold on Sam. He knew the younger boy was screaming in fright against his t-shirt. He knew he was screaming too. But he couldn't stop.

Suddenly the rocking ceased. Sam's muffled screams still filled the car but Dean had run out of breath. An overpoweringly morbid urgency to listen had silenced his efforts to scream again. He forced his eyes open and looked at the passenger window: empty. He turned to the driver's door as the door handle lifted on the inside.

The door was rattled in its housing but didn't open. Dean screamed again, matching Sam's expulsion of abject fear.

Then he saw John's face in the window. He looked panicked, stricken.

"Dean! Dean! You ok?" he shouted through the glass.

Dean managed to stop screaming and stared.

"Dean! Answer me!" John shouted, this time angry.

Dean felt his head nod. His throat was still raw, his eyes still jammed open. Sam was wailing into his shirt but he didn't even feel it.

"You sure you're ok, buddy?" John asked, starting to look relieved. "How about unlocking the door for your old man?"

Dean thought for a long second. "How do I know - know there ain't - ain't more of them people?" he managed, and John's heart skipped several beats at the horror in his son's voice.

_Calm down, calm down, calm down - then calm him down_, John ordered. "I told 'em if they got in there with us, they'd have to listen to my Zeppelin tapes too," he stated, his pointing finger indicating the radio. Dean looked over at it, hearing Sam's wailing tail off.

"Maybe they'd _like_ it," Dean accused forcefully.

John cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well I ain't in the mood to share it with 'em. Are you?"

He watched Dean consider this. Then the boy slid over to the driver's door and his hand went out. He grasped the knob, then looked up at his father fearfully.

"It's ok, sport. It's just me."

"Why you got blood on your shirt?" Dean whispered.

"Dean… Look, we have to leave right now. This is not a nice place to be so late." He put his hands out innocently. _I should just use my key. But he would never trust me again_. "Can we go now? You want to stay here after what you just saw? We need to get out of here."

Dean swallowed, then unlocked the door. John opened it quickly and slid in, closing it quickly behind him. He slid his keys into the ignition and the engine growled into life.

Without even looking at his boys he swung the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

Dean sat deathly still, staring out of the passenger window, still clutching Sam against him. Sam was alert, awake, but he had his eyes screwed shut, gripping onto his older brother for all he was worth. He neither whimpered nor shifted, but Dean recognised they were as tightly wound as each other.

John drove fast, his hands clamped on the steering wheel. He pulled over suddenly, bringing the car to an abrupt halt by the side of the road, the wheels skidding in the gravel. He turned to look at his boys.

"Dean," he said quickly. "I need to make a phonecall. You see that phone out there?" he demanded. Dean didn't move and John felt himself huff. "Dean," he said forcefully, nudging the boy's shoulder. Dean turned his head and stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

John felt the urgency and panic slip away. Instead he felt guilt and blame closing over his head. He made himself look away from his son's pale face and look at the phone by the driver's door.

"That phone. I'll be at that phone. For one minute. I can see you two the whole time. You got me?" he breathed.

Dean just nodded once. John nodded back, turning and leaping from the car.

Dean's gaze followed him as he hurried to the phone and slammed money in the slot, picking up the receiver.

"Deeeean," Sam whispered, his face still in his shirt.

"Yeah," Dean whispered back.

"We good?" he dared.

Dean swallowed, then took a deep breath that Sam felt but didn't understand. "Dad's here. I'm here. You're here. We're good," he said confidently.

"Ok," Sam whispered. He held on tighter to his brother as Dean watched his father speak quickly into the roadside phone.

"Yeah - goddamn things must be tracking me - they jumped the car. What the hell kinda zombies _track people_?" He paused. "Well of course they were! What was I gonna do, leave them in some motel room? For Christ's sake, Bobby!" he spat at the phone. "Yeah, I know. I've got to find the ringleader and stake him first, then take care of the trackers." He paused, listening. "I got no idea, man. Why trackers? Who knows." He sighed. "Yeah. Anyway, we're on the way to a motel. I'll call from there."

He hung up abruptly and stomped back to the car. Dean jumped slightly as he felt his father's anger slide back into the car with him.

He looked over at Dean and caught the look of apprehension and fear on his small face. He made himself calm down, taking a long, relaxing breath. He put his hand out slowly, smoothing it down the back of his eldest boy's head and holding it there.

"We're good, champ. We're good," he reassured him. Dean simply nodded.

John gunned the engine and made himself drive off slowly and without sign of his roiling inner turmoil. It was silent in the car for a long time.

Eventually the Impala stopped and John pushed her into Park. He turned in the seat deliberately, looking at the pair of them.

"Dean," he said quietly. "Dean, we're here. We'll get out, go into the room, and then get some hot food. What do you say?"

Dean didn't move, didn't answer, and John sighed. He wiped his face with a cold hand, searching for something to say.

_I never wanted you to see this. This was never meant to happen. This was never how you were supposed to find ou_t.

He let his hand drop, studying the two of them in the cooling car. He put a hand out slowly, laying it on Dean's shoulder.

"You… You were a hero tonight, Dean. You do know that?" he asked quietly.

Dean didn't move for the longest time. Eventually he turned his head, lifting his chin over Sam's hair and then down again to look at his father.

"A hero?" he asked timidly.

"Heck yes," John grinned. "And heroes get pineapple on their pizza."

"If it's all the same," Dean managed quietly, his face white, his eyes hopeful, "can I just get the bed you already checked under?"

John squeezed his shoulder. "Well hey, I think you can get the bed you already checked under tonight," he grinned. "Nothing's gonna mess with you two."

"Really?"

"Really," John nodded, hating himself for the fear in his son's eyes. "So, we ready to go in?" he asked, patting gently.

"No," Dean mumbled.

"Why not?"

"Can't make my legs go," he admitted, his little face reddening with shame. "They don't wanna go."

"Cos they know Sammy's still sat on you, that's why," John said charitably. He reached over and lifted Sam, but as Dean found himself free he turned and slid over the seat quickly. He put both arms round his father and held on, pushing his face into his leather jacket. John set Sam on his knee and then curled an arm round Dean's back, pulling him into him warmly.

Sam just looked up and around blearily, caught sight of his father, and smiled with sudden delight.

"Daddy!" he said happily, and it was as if the sun had cut through the rain clouds.

"Hey Sammy," he grinned, pinching at his tiny nose, "how's my little man?"

"Tired," Sam nodded energetically, bouncing in his father's grip.

"You sure?" John asked, confused over the conflicting signals. But Sam put his little hand out and grasped at John's sleeve. John let his wrist be pushed and Sam made it land on the top of Dean's head, still buried in his side.

"Dean's tired," he said wisely.

John smiled. "So let's get in the motel room, huh?"

.

* * *

.

**Present day**

.

"So let's get in the motel room, huh?" Dean yawned, opening the heavy door on the Impala.

"Ok, I'm just saying I need time to look at these notes."

"You'll _have_ time, Sammy - _in_ the motel room."

Sam watched his elder brother leave the driver's seat empty, then sighed and turned to his door. He opened it quickly, pushing himself out and standing in the cold night air. He looked over at the flashing neons and empty parking spaces around and nodded to himself.

Dean was already lifting duffles from the boot and closing the lid. As Sam closed his door and walked around, Dean tossed his duffle at him and shouldered his own. He walked off and Sam followed, rubbing his eyes as he heard his elder brother opening the door to reception.

Ten minutes later and they were already throwing duffles onto beds to mark territory and pulling off boots and jackets.

While Dean was content to liberate the nearest of the six beer bottles he had brought with them from the cardboard carrier, Sam was flipping through his notebook. He sat on his adopted bed, pulling the pillows around behind him to make his position more comfortable.

Dean was already pointing the remote at the TV set six feet from the end of the beds.

"Ooh look, we got HBO," he muttered, letting go of the remote to slide his ring under the bottle cap. He wrenched it off and flipped it at the bed, sipping at the bottle with appreciation. He sniffed and picked up the remote again.

"That's great," Sam muttered, immersed in his notes. "So you got any early thoughts?"

"Ooooh yeah," Dean grinned, and Sam looked up to find him paging through a whole list of porn channel names and prices.

"About how we start tomorrow?" Sam added wearily. "It says this girl, Hannah Barrington, died in an alley way, apparently murdered by a dead man. She's being buried at the cemetery tomorrow."

"Well then we start at the cemetery," Dean shrugged. He paged past the porn channels and instead landed on some black and white film. "Cool!"

Sam looked at the film, but apart from spotting Jimmy Stewart, didn't recognise the scene. He got up and went to his laptop, lifting it from his bag to the wooden table between the beds. He opened it up and set about finding power points.

Dean finished his beer, mouthing along to the film that he apparently knew backwards and forwards: "Your brother, Harry Bailey, broke through the ice and was drowned at the age of nine." He paused to take a swig from the beer bottle. "That's a lie! Harry Bailey went to war - he got the Congressional Medal of Honour, he saved the lives of every man on that transport!" He grinned to himself, taking another sip. "Every man on that transport died! Harry wasn't there to save them, because you weren't there to save Harry!"

Sam logged onto the internet, tapping away as he cast his elder brother amused glances, listening to him announce every line along with the film. He looked down at the internet, reading slowly.

"When's the last time we were here?" he asked suddenly.

Dean didn't tear his eyes from the TV set. "Whut?"

"I said, when was the last time we were here?"

"In this motel?"

"In Pahrump," Sam prompted.

Dean's gaze flicked to the ceiling for a long moment, then back down again. "No idea." He watched another minute of film before curiosity hijacked the entertainment value of the next scene. "Why?" he asked abruptly, looking over at Sam.

"It's just… weird. The name sounds familiar."

"Oh." Dean bent all his attention to the TV again.

"We've never been here, have we?" Sam asked presently.

"Whut? I don't know," Dean shrugged, pre-occupied. "Unless it was with Dad. I never really paid attention to place names anyhow."

"Yeah, I know," Sam allowed, smiling slightly.

.

* * *

.

The morning air was dreary and wet, the carefully manicured lawn transferring as much night rain to the boys' shoes as possible as they trudged through the cemetery.

Sam stopped by a large tree, looking out over the graveyard. A small group of people were gathered around an open grave, the requisite church heads doling out blessings and condolences to the assembled mourners. Dean stopped behind him, bumping into him slightly as he looked round his taller shoulder.

"Any idea who we should be talking to?" Sam asked quietly, from the side of his mouth.

Dean scanned the funeral guests carefully, his head tilting slightly as he encountered one woman near the grave edge. Sam turned slightly and saw him staring. He followed his gaze back and guessed he would be looking at the only female guest under fifty.

"Let me guess, you want to start with her?" he sighed.

"Nope," Dean said suddenly, and Sam's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He turned to look at him, but Dean's gaze stayed on the funeral party. "_She_ did it."

"She did it?" Sam gaped, then turned and looked over them again. "You mean she killed the eighteen year old? Why?"

"I don't know. But… she did it," Dean said uncomfortably. Sam thought for a long second before he turned around again. He eyed Dean's sudden discomfort.

"And you're basing this hunch on…?"

"I don't know. She just… skeeves me all to Hell, man," he shivered.

Sam's face went overly innocent and he turned round again. He watched the funeral party move slightly outwards as the coffin was hoisted and began to move toward the grave.

"She looks… normal," he managed.

"So do shapeshifters," Dean grunted. Sam snorted in amusement, watching the people with their eyes fastened on the coffin.

"Well we're here cos this Hannah girl was walking home and got jumped by someone, identity unconfirmed, and was killed by blunt force trauma to the head. The DNA they got from the victim's wounds came from her ex-boyfriend, Neal Perry, except he'd already been dead for a week. So how does this have anything to do with that woman over there?" Sam shrugged.

"You ask her. I'll wait here."

Sam chuckled and turned, his mouth open ready to ask. But as he caught sight of Dean's face his smile faded.

"Seriously?" Sam asked.

"Seriously," Dean nodded.

Sam eyed him until Dean noticed and dragged his gaze from the woman. He stared instead at his younger sibling. "What?" he demanded.

"What is it that freaks you out?" he grinned.

"I don't know. Maybe _that's_ what freaks me out," Dean muttered, his face dark. Sam shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Ok. I'll go talk to the woman who 'skeeves you all to Hell' and you go… do something else useful," he allowed.

"I'll start with that dude," Dean said firmly, nodding. Sam looked at the group.

"Which one?"

"The guy that works for the cemetery," he said. "He's gotta know all the gossip, right?"

"Right," Sam nodded. "Meet you back here in an hour. If I don't come back, load the shotgun and come looking for me. I'll be the one hypnotised to death by the innocent brunette."

"Not funny, Sam."

.

.


	2. Head Hunted

**TWO**

**Head Hunted**

.

Sam walked up to the graveside, finding everyone had departed save the lone woman currently staring down into the open hole. He stopped nearby, looking down at the coffin with the handfuls of dirt on top.

He waited, and eventually the woman looked over at him.

"Are you a friend of hers?" she asked slowly.

Sam straightened and turned as if surprised she were speaking. He offered a sad smile. "Not really. I just think it's a waste," he said truthfully.

The woman nodded, her brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. Her dark grey trouser suit was severe, well-cut, expensive, and yet her black boots were well-used and scuffed. She reached up and pulled the black Ray-Bans from her eyes, looking at Sam's feet, and he got the impression she was nearing forty years old.

"It _was_ a waste. It was a… It was cruel." Her voice was strangely warm for someone managing to describe such misery in two sentences.

Sam felt his eyebrows twitch in sympathy. "You knew her?"

"I did," she allowed. "Hannah and I were… good friends. Very good friends."

She turned and looked back down at the grave, pondering something. Sam watched her fold the glasses and pull one side of her suit jacket open slightly, pushing them into some kind of inside pocket. He noticed a small silver ring on the baby finger of her left hand, possibly inlaid with some kind of stone, but it flashed in and out of sight too quickly for any kind of analysis.

They heard a slight crackle of radio and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, kicking himself for ignoring all the signs. He opened them to see her feeling in her left pocket for a radio.

"Yeah, this is Frost. What it is?"

There was hurried jabbering from the other end of the radio and she flicked her eyes up to find Sam pretending he wasn't listening. She cleared her throat and turned away from him, walking across the grass quickly.

"Ok. I'm on my way. Make sure no-one disturbs the scene."

Sam turned but she was already heading down the embankment toward an older model champagne coloured BMW 750i. She sniffed casually as she unlocked it and opened the door, pausing to look back over her shoulder at him. He smiled slightly and she looked undecided. Then she jumped in and closed the door. The car started up and pulled away smartly.

Sam looked around slowly, making sure no-one else was watching him, and pulled out his phone. He pressed the speed-dial and waited as the line connected. It rang for a long time before Dean answered.

"What?"

"Your suspect? She's a police officer," Sam said smugly.

"That's great. I'm nearly done here, meet you at the car," Dean replied shortly. The line was cut and Sam looked at the phone, surprised, before pushing it back in his pocket.

Sam sighed. "Yeah, cos hanging round cemeteries is what I live for."

.

* * *

.

"Yeah, cos hanging round cemeteries is what I live for," John growled down the phone. He lifted his chin, about to bawl down the mouthpiece, but caught sight of a mousy head just shy of the top of the sofa behind him. He hesitated. "Look, Bobby - I can't talk right now. Yeah, you know who it is. Right. I'll call later when they're sleeping."

John dropped the receiver to the phone on the table, turning leisurely. "Dean, come out from there," he said with a hint of weariness.

Dean's head slowly lifted from behind the sofa and his hands hooked over the back, aiding his ascent. He blinked large eyes at his father.

"Was that uncle Bobby?" he asked, strangely excited. John paused, a little surprised.

"Ye-ah," he allowed, walking around the sofa and sitting. Dean turned and jumped, unfolding his legs to bounce down next to the father. He leaned on him, banging a little fist into his leg soundly.

"Is he comin' here or are we goin' there?" Dean asked eagerly.

John caught at his wrist and held it still before he left a bruise. "Neither. He was asking if I wanted to do some work for him, and I said no."

"What kinda work?" Dean asked quickly.

"The kind of work that would pay for a bigger room," he smiled.

"I don't want a bigger room," Dean pouted.

"Why's that?"

"Cos I can't see you and Sammy at the same time in a bigger room, and I don't like that idea," he said firmly.

John smiled, raising his hand and ruffling at his son's hair. There was a thumping on the door and both of them jumped slightly. John grabbed Dean's shoulder firmly to keep him still.

"Yeah?" he called at the door.

"Mr Aframian? It's me, from the front desk," came a girl's voice. John nudged at Dean as he got to his feet quickly. He shuffled him from the sofa to the floorboards and turned him around by his shoulders to look him in the eye.

"Dean, get your brother, we have to leave," he ordered.

"But Dad--"

"Do it. Now." He turned him round and gave him a gentle push toward the other door.

"Mr Aframian?" came the girl's voice again. "I just got a call!"

John waited till Dean was out of the room. He hurried to the door and opened it to find the woman from the desk looking at him.

"Oh I'm sorry, Mr Aframian, looks like that new husband's found you," she said quickly. "I just got a phone call from the police - they asked about you, used some fake name like 'Winchester', I think, but it was you, John, and your boys. If you want to stay out of their way, you'd better leave now."

John nodded. "I got it. Thanks, Joanie. You don't know how much you've helped me."

"Oh, John. I'm so sorry that horrid man is after your kids. Go now, hurry, before they get here." She lunged forward and grabbed his arms, kissing at his cheek firmly. "Good luck. I'll tell them you must have bolted even though you paid for the next two nights." She pulled a thin wad of bills from her pocket, thrusting it at him. "A refund."

"Joanie, you're too good to us," he managed._ So good I wish I didn't have to lie about why the police are after me_. "You're an angel."

She just smiled, shaking her head and stepping back. "Oh, angels aren't real, John. We just have to get along as best we can by ourselves," she added sadly. Then she turned and disappeared from the doorway.

John stood for a moment, the tacit sadness of her remark cutting through his evening. Then he heard scuffling and movement behind him. He closed the door quickly, finding Sam all bundled up in a huge Parka that made him look like the Michelin man, except for the tiny lengths of jeans sticking out the bottom, ending in scuffed trainers.

"Dean," he sighed, trying to keep a straight face.

"It's cold outside and last time the heater in the car didn't work," said his oldest in defence, appearing from behind the round ball of super-heated Sam. He himself had two jumpers on with his heavy denim jacket on top, and John let his head tilt before he turned it to appraise the clothing arrangements on the baby of the family.

"That's your coat he's got on."

"He's four, he can't get cold," Dean said dismissively. He took Sam's gloved hand and hefted a duffle bag over his shoulder. He staggered a little under the weight but made himself straighten. "Well _we're_ ready. Are you?"

John made himself remember why they were fleeing in the first place and went into the back room. He emerged not two minutes later with his duffle and every worldly possession stuffed into it. He leaned down and took Dean's hand.

"Come on. We need to get in the car and drive for a while."

"Why?" Sam asked suddenly.

"Sammy, shush. Dad says we gotta go, so we gotta go. He'll tell us later," Dean told him.

John paused, the sliver of time so clear. He knew it was all wrong, knew his sons shouldn't have to hop towns like this, knew he shouldn't be letting his older son act for him in his forced absence, knew it was all stretching out fit to ruin what future they could have between the three of them. The moment was so still and so clear: the opportunity to put a stop on the crazy world and simply take his boys to a place where chasing monsters in the night didn't matter any more.

He considered it, actually considered giving up the need to trace the murderer of his wife, the mother his youngest son would never know, the mother his eldest son still refused to talk about with his own father.

Anger flared anew and he simply led his boys out of the motel quickly and into the car.

Sam was deposited in the middle of the bench seat and Dean pulled the passenger door closed quickly. John slid into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. He slid her into Reverse and eased her quietly out of the parking lot, snatching a quick look up at the reception window as he reached the exit. He was unsurprised to see Joanie wave a cheerful hand, as if she knew something he didn't.

He buried the unease. After all, most of the time it felt like _everyone_ knew something he didn't. About a great many things.

.

* * *

.

He slowed the Impala to a stop in the darkness, listening to the engine tick over warmly and wondering which way to take at the intersection. He looked over at the passenger half, seeing his two boys fast asleep in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Dean had unzipped and removed the Parka to spare Sam a roasting, and now both of them were snuggled under it happily. John smiled for a moment, before he cursed the fact that they were sleeping in the front seat of a car and not in proper beds.

He looked around in the darkness outside the car, finding nothing of help, not even a signpost. He leaned over to the glovebox, opening it up and rifling through to try and find some kind of map. He knew he had one of Nevada in there somewhere, he just wasn't sure where.

His fingers connected with something paper and he pulled it free. It appeared to be the giant fold-over map of Pahrump that Dean had procured suspiciously free of charge from the motel shop. John stalled his small smile of pride and began to open it out. He traced the motel and tried to work out the route he had just taken for the last forty minutes.

He paused as his fingers brushed the place name of his possible intersection. He sniffed and brought the map up closer to his face to try and read names.

There was a slam against the bodywork. John dropped the map into his lap, forgotten. Something squealed in horrific anger at the windscreen. John's eyes widened in recognition. He ignored the sounds of fear from the passenger side and already had the old girl in gear. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The Impala leapt forward slightly. Then she stopped. He heard the engine haring away eagerly, could hear the revs going nuts and saw the rpm count climb insanely high. The car was not moving.

He looked in the rear view mirror and saw why.

Something human-shaped and grey had hands under the boot. He could only assume they were hauling the rear wheels off the ground with supernatural strength.

He let his foot off and instead went for the machete down the left side of his seat. He rammed the car into Park.

"Daddy!" Sam squealed in fear.

"_Jesus Christ!_" John whispered hoarsely, staring in horror. Sam and Dean were gripping tightly to each other, looking out of the passenger window at another grey semi-human. It wrenched at the door handle. It started to open.

John leaned over, panicked. But Dean's hand shot out and grabbed at the inside of the handle desperately. It slowed it down enough to give John time to grab it. He wrenched it closed again and slammed the knob down to lock the door. He turned to his own door in time to hear glass smashing.

Hands grabbed at him and he was yanked from his seat.

Dean shouted something as Sam screamed. It was ear-piercingly loud. Dean dumped Sam on the passenger seat and scrambled over the other side. He pushed the heavy door open, about to jump out of the car after his father.

He ignored Sam's screams and pleas. He threw his young legs over the side of the vinyl to the dirt road. He looked up to see John struggling with some large, grey, emaciated man.

"Dean! Get in! Lock it!" John shouted at him. "Protect Sam!"

Dean just stared, rooted to the spot in fear. Sam screamed ever more loudly behind him. Dean's eyes refused to close, refused to blink, refused to look away. His father turned quickly, raking the machete across the man's throat.

The deluge of strangely dark blood kick-started Dean's legs. He turned and scrambled back up the seat. He slammed the door and pounded the knob down into it with both small fists. He felt hot salty tears on his cheeks as he groped blindly for Sam behind him. His baby brother's tiny hands fastened onto his jacket. Dean turned quickly, grabbing him and hauling him to him. He yanked him to sit facing him. He simply enveloped him, making sure his little head was inside his jacket.

He closed his eyes. They held tight to each other for an eternity.

There came a huge smashing sound. Sam screamed, muffled by Dean's two sweaters. Then Dean felt hands gripping his shoulder, felt something pulling at Sam. He yelled and kicked out, his eyes screwed shut in terror.

Sam screamed. Dean shouted and kicked. He was lifted up. His wail of fear turned into a bellow of anger as he felt himself losing grip on Sam.

"No! Gimme!" he snarled, opening his eyes. He was no longer in the car. Two large grey men were peering down at him, grinning with missing teeth and holes in their faces. "Gimme Sam!" he bawled. He kicked and flailed with all his strength. "Sam! _Sammy! SAAAUUUM!_"

One of the grey men suddenly disappeared. The other snatched at Dean and lifted him over his head. Dean realised he was far off the ground and squeaked in fear. He grabbed at the hands holding him up.

He felt his stomach drop out and then something walloped into him harder than a freight train. He lay, dazed, barely able to keep his eyes open, knowing his vision was blurring and the grey men seemed to be everywhere.

He heard Sam screaming for him. He forced himself to struggle. He felt sick, scared, surreal, and yet his hands searched for the grass either side of him. He found it and pushed himself up, something hot and sticky in his eye.

"Dean! _No!_ Dean!"

He knew he should answer his father, but it was all too much effort. He wasn't sure, but he thought he felt the ground in his head. And then it all went black.

.

.


	3. Three Heads Are Better Than Two

**THREE**

**Three Heads Are Better Than Two**

.

Dean opened an eye slowly, wondering why his head hurt. He kept very still, just like trying to work out if Dad and Sam were awake before him. And if so, if Sam had already got the _good_ cereal for breakfast.

But instead of the dinginess of a motel room, he saw lots of white. Lots of blurred, wouldn't-stay-in-focus-white. He took a deep breath rather surreptitiously.

_Definitely not a hospital smell_, he thought as he analysed the strange concoction of pleasant, innocuous scents. He opened his other eye and listened carefully. He could make out voices, one male and one female. And then it clicked.

"Dad," he grunted. It made pain shoot through his head, but he was determined to call until he got what he wanted. "Dad!"

Someone put a hand on his shoulder gently. Instinct told him it wasn't his father. A brown haired vision of beauty interrupted his fearful imaginings as he watched it hove into view directly above him. Suddenly everything was in sharp focus. The face was breath-taking in its Venus-like effulgence.

"How you feeling, Dean?"

He stared up at her, assessing exactly how he _did_ feel. "Are you an angel?" he blurted.

The face smiled and suddenly, she was even more amazing than before. "No, Dean, I'm not an angel. Do I look like one?" she teased warmly.

"My mom said angels are watching over me. _You're_ over me," he pointed out. "And you're… well, kinda watching. Right?"

She put a hand down and squeezed his shoulder warmly. "Alright then, yes, I'm an angel," she grinned.

"You're making fun of me," he realised.

"Oh Dean," she grinned, pulling her hand back. "You're so very clever for an eight year old."

"Eight and a half," he pointed out quickly. "Actually, no, I'm nine in two months."

"Not too old for a smack if you're giving poor Nara trouble," came a stern voice, and Dean saw his father's face loom over him.

"Not at all, John. He's your boy alright - right down to the smart thinking," she said, drawing her face away from Dean's. John faded upwards too, and before he knew it, Dean had let his eyes close.

"Dad," he murmured, and the two adults bent over him again as he struggled to make his eyes open, struggled to come out with a coherent sentence.

"What is it, sport?"

"Where's Sammy?"

There was a pause. "He's fine. Now sleep for a little while. Nara's going to watch you."

"Don't… know her…"

"I know you don't. But I do. She'll watch you."

"'K." Dean's eyes were already closed, and he was fast asleep before he could acknowledge it.

Nara looked up at John, a wide smile over her face.

"What?" John asked suspiciously.

"Your boy thinks I'm an angel," she teased.

"Does he now," John remarked, shaking his head and putting his hand out. He brushed Dean's hair back from the stitched-up lump in his hairline, his own face pained for a long moment.

"He'll be ok, you know. We don't let anyone die here."

"No-one?" John asked sourly.

Nara put her young hand out, trapping John's to his son's head with warmth. He looked at her and she smiled, but there was more gravity there than if she had scowled at him.

"No-one," she asserted. "At least, not before their time. And I think both your boys have a very long way to go yet."

"I… ah… Hope that's a good thing," he observed, baffled. "Listen, I'm just really grateful you took us in like this - without warning, and without telling the cops."

She looked down at Dean with unexpected warmth in her brown eyes. "Pastor Jim was very vouching," she grinned. "He likes the three of you. Anyway." She looked up again, and John saw so much wisdom in a face much too young for it. "The last thing we need round here is cops. It's not their world, is it?"

.

* * *

.

"The last thing we need round here is cops," Dean said firmly, biting into the hot dog with as much relish as it was carrying itself. "It's not their world, is it?"

Sam lifted a napkin patiently, but his brother ignored him. Until Dean managed to spill ketchup down his white shirt. He cursed something with a full mouth, taking the napkin and wiping it off his front quickly.

"I assume she works for the local station," Sam said slowly, watching Dean push as much bun into his mouth as possible. "Frost, her name is. I didn't get a rank or first name."

"Sounds… friendly," Dean observed with sarcasm.

"Actually, I'm sure she would be if she wasn't having to attend funerals for people she knew," he said tartly. Dean just looked at him.

"Alright, calm down, Oprah. I was just sayin'."

"Right. You still think she's the murderess? Cos I think we need to Agent-up and pay a call at the station, get some info here. All we know so far is that Hannah Barrington, eighteen, of Pahrump, Nevada was found dead, apparently the victim of a dark-alley attack."

"Have we seen the autopsy?" Dean asked, around a mouthful of ketchup, mustard, relish and Frankfurter sausage.

"Not yet," Sam said deliberately. "That's why I want to go find out who the Chief is in this town."

"Right, right," Dean said quickly. "You wanna hear what I got from the gravedigger dude?"

"As long as it's not his backlog of Penthouse magazine jokes," he sighed.

"Well there was the one about the two dwarves that pick up two hookers, and then one dwarf hears the other going '_Geronimo!_' next door, but you've probably heard it," Dean said dismissively. Sam just eyed him before shaking his head in pity. Dean sniffed and stuffed the last piece of hot dog in his mouth.

"Well?" Sam asked wearily.

"Right, so get this - the guy, Roger, is employed to dig graves, right?"

"Because he's a gravedigger?"

"Shut up. He gets a call to dig a fresh hole for plantin' someone, so he shows up to work and digs."

"Wow, freaky," Sam drawled with enough sarcasm to cause overload damage to the suspension springs on the Impala.

Dean tutted. "This is the good bit - he digs all morning and he's done, right? So he goes to the boss and tells him. The padre turns round and tells him he has to inspect it - which he does - and then tells him it's in the wrong place. Gravedigger Dude--"

"--Roger?"

"--Roger, says '_woah woah woah, not on my map it ain't_', but the father says he has to dig another one."

"And?"

"And he digs another one - on the _other_ side of the yard."

"So?"

"So the other side of the yard is supposed to be full already, and off-limits."

"Right, wow. Someone wanted her on the shady side of the Lawn Of Rest. What's next, they order the wrong flowers for her headstone?"

"Nope," Dean said, appearing vindicated. "The work order specified no trees or vegetation whatsoever round her place of rest."

"No! Call the police!" Sam cried, slapping a hand to his suit over his heart, stumbling slightly on the lawn. "Oh my God! That's incredible, Dean!"

Dean scowled at him. "It is, actually, cos it matches exactly what was specified on Neal Perry's - the ex who was supposed to have killed her a week after he shuffled off this mortal coil. Both of them had to be buried out in the boonies end of the graveyard beyond vegetation or decorative flora and fauna."

Sam paused. "They both had that in the grave notes?"

"They both had that in the grave notes. I think someone doesn't want rotting trees and dying plants to advertise the unholy ground they got goin' on. I think they're--"

"You think someone's recruiting them as zombies?"

"What do you think?"

Sam was silent as he turned it over in his head. "Well… It's a reach right now," he allowed.

"Aw c'mon, Sam, what else have we got? And it would explain the dead-for-a-week murderer."

"It could be any number of things, Dean. It could be… uh… a simple case of mistaken identity - how do we know the DNA was matched correctly in the first place?"

"Alright, Gil Grissom - we'll go down to the station and pull some rank, demand some paperwork. Happy?"

"With you being wrong about zombies? Yes," Sam smiled, putting his hands in his pockets and following the elder Winchester across the lawn.

.

* * *

.

Sam and Dean walked into the police station on high alert. While Sam was more concerned with anyone who took an overt interest in them, Dean appeared to be ever more uncomfortable the deeper they ventured into the station.

Sam left his brother dawdling by the reception desk and instead went straight to the private desk behind the wooden gate.

"Excuse me, you can't be in here," came a little voice, and he turned quickly. He spotted a young woman, probably no more than twenty-two, watching him with suspicion. Her expression suddenly changed as she clapped eyes on his actual face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, how rude of me," he said with a wide smile, approaching her as he put his hand inside his jacket. "Special Agent Peart, FBI."

"Oh! Sorry, sir," she said quickly, but Sam waved it off.

"No problem, I shouldn't have walked in unannounced. Is it possible to see the Chief?"

"Ah - yeah," she allowed, a frown on her young features. She pushed mousy hair from her face irritably. "But she's kinda busy right now."

"She?" Sam prompted, a funny feeling he would knew who the Chief was beginning to nudge his suspicion nodes.

"No-one's too busy for the FBI," Dean said suddenly, appearing behind Sam, lifting his badge. "Special Agent Lee. Tell her we won't take up too much of her time."

"O-k," the officer said quickly. She turned and made her way to the back of the room, turning left and disappearing round the corner.

Sam turned and looked at him. "Little harsh?"

"Daylight's a-wasting. If this is someone brewing up new zombies, we need to stop 'em before it gets dark. Or at least get a handle on who it might be."

"Fair enough," Sam admitted. He looked around the room slowly, taking in the six wooden desks replete with stacks of paperwork and files in odd little towers of neglect. "Does this seem like the usual state of a station?" he asked from the corner of his mouth.

"Y'know, there's something odd about the way the tables are laid out," Dean muttered. They split up abruptly, spacing out and tilting their heads to try and deduce some kind of pattern to the odd layout.

"Excuse me? Special Agent Peart? The Chief will see you now," came a polite female voice.

The Winchesters straightened quickly, pretending they hadn't really been caught stooping and bending to work out decorative master plans. There was a synchronised throat-clearing and then they followed the young officer to the back of the room.

They turned left and found themselves in a corridor that barely went ten feet before it turned ninety degrees to the right again. There was just about enough room to walk side by side as they followed the girl down the very clean corridor.

She walked past a door and stopped, turning back to them and holding her hand out to indicate the door.

"I'm sorry to make you walk, gentlemen," she said quickly.

"Oh it's no trouble," Sam replied suavely, before gesturing over his shoulder with his chin. "He needs the exercise."

She smiled for him alone and stepped back to push the door open. She watched Special Agent Lee shove Special Agent Peart in the back to get him through the door, and smiled as she closed it again slowly.

She bounced off, smiling for no good reason. But it felt warm.

Sam and Dean walked further in cautiously, looking around the office and finding it adequate. It had no windows, only a high ceiling with artificial lights and a silent air-con unit in the polystyrene tiles, currently sweeping the room efficiently.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said a voice. "Sorry to inconvenience you like this."

They looked over and found themselves facing a stack of files on a desk. Dean wandered over, poking his head round the side. He found an ageing Apple MacIntosh laptop computer and a large, worn chair. But no person.

"Up here," came the voice. They both looked up and round, finding a woman watching them from the top of a wooden library ladder, attached to a dizzyingly complete wall of ancient bookshelves.

_The woman from the funeral_, Sam confirmed to himself.

"Well well well. The FBI gets prettier every year," she remarked drily, raising a single eyebrow at Dean. She shifted her eyes to Sam. "And I've met you before, haven't I?"

"You have, ma'am," he admitted. "I neglected to tell you who I was at the funeral. I'm sorry."

"No harm done," she allowed.

She turned on her wooden ladder, hefting a book under her arm and making her way down it slowly. The bookshelves filled the entire wall, crammed full of old, dusty tomes. Sam eyed the shelves, nudging Dean to draw his attention to them. But Dean nudged him back, gesturing to the far filing cabinet with his eyes. It looked ordinary enough, apart from the fine line of suspiciously grey powder around the back edge.

And the faint pentacle chalked on the side.

Sam's eyes took it in with a look that Dean had come to know meant that he was analysing all the clues in his huge brain to see if they measured up to a theory he already had cooking.

The chief reached the floor from her ladder, turning and dropping the book to her desk. "Please ignore the state of my office," she said smartly.

"Oh, no really, it's like Washington," Dean smiled. "All you're missing is an 'I Want To Believe' poster."

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile escaped. "Chief Frost," she announced, putting her hand out. Dean took it and a firm handshake ensued.

"Agent Lee," he nodded.

She paused, holding onto his palm. "Have we met before?" she asked faintly.

"Nope," Dean shrugged, his guilty gaze going round the walls quickly to make sure no 'Wanted' posters were around. He realised they were still shaking hands and pulled on his to free it. But she held onto it.

"But… I feel I know you," she said slowly. "Yeah, I do. I just can't think--"

"Well, this is my partner, Agent Peart," he said hastily, turning. She let his hand go and her hazel eyes narrowed on Sam.

"Hi," he said gamely, putting a hand out. She shook it firmly and their hands dropped. "Anyways, we were kinda wondering if we could take a look at what you have so far on Hannah Barrington."

"Hannah? Why?"

"We're investigating," Dean said, nodding firmly. "We find it odd that she was apparently killed by a dead guy."

"Oh really," Frost scoffed, folding her arms. "And after I show you the pathologist's report and you can see for yourself his findings are genuine and absolute, what then, gentlemen? You mosey on back to Washington and brand me a fruitcake for trying to find a murderer who, according to the national records, was dead before he killed her?"

"Oh, hey, now," Dean began quickly, his hands up in surrender.

"Not at all," Sam cut in swiftly, "once we've seen the report and we concur, we'll help you in your search."

"I see," she tutted. "Like I've never heard that before."

Sam's eyes dropped to her folded hands, and the ring on her baby finger. He smiled slowly then let his hands drop into his trouser pockets, positively reeking confidence.

"What?" she asked.

"You're a Wiccan," he announced, nodding at her ring.

"You're fishing, Special Agent."

"Are you a British Traditional? Or a 1734 Tradition? Or maybe a Dianic Wicca - although you don't fit the description of the last two," he said easily. Dean, beside him, looked down as he rocked on his heels slightly, amused.

She scowled at Sam. "How the hell do you know--"

"Oh it has nothing to do with _Hell_, as you well know," Sam smiled. "Look - we've already clocked the protection dust and the pentagram - and that symbol on your finger. Can we pretend to be friends now?"

"Oh I get it, tell me a few things that are supposed to shock me and I'll believe you're on my side. I've seen '_Psych_', I know it's all a con," she allowed, but she wandered back and perched on the end of her desk.

"Says a witch," Dean said pointedly. She stared at him. Hard. He didn't so much as flinch.

"Well this witch says it was definitely him, dead or not."

"Good," Dean nodded. He spared Sam a glance, passing a nervous tongue over his lower lip. "Then I'll come clean."

Sam slid his eyes over to him quickly, fearing his brother's next words.

"What?" she asked with a sigh.

"We think you're right," Dean confirmed. Sam nudged him. "Ok, _I_ think you're right - about him being dead and still killing that girl."

"Riiiiight," she smiled, tilting her head. "And just how is that possible?"

"We got ourselves a zombie problem."

.

* * *

.

"We got ourselves a zombie problem," John admitted, leafing through his weighty journal. Nara sat back, shaking her head.

"There are no such things as zombies," she smiled, but he realised she was only half teasing.

"Very soon you'll be right. I just need some silver rods and to get them pinned to their grave beds," he said.

"Fair enough. You do it your way. You _are_ leaving Dean and Sam here though, right?"

She watched the older man's face, watch it flit through a hundred different emotions in a few seconds.

"It would be for the best," she said quietly. "Dean's not fit to go anywhere, and Sam's a little… He seems troubled when he can't sit with his brother."

"They're all I've got," he blurted, looking at her. "Look, your mother said… she said we could get medical help. And you've seen to Dean, he's all stitched and medicated, and I really, _really_ appreciate that. But a lot of shit went down last night and I think that bump on his head was the least of it all."

"Does he know what you do?"

"He doesn't know I'm a hunter. Although after tonight, it's going to be… awkward."

"He's a smart kid. He pretends not to be though."

"Don't I know it."

"Why?" she asked quietly. John looked at her in the candlelight, really looked at her. He considered his answer for a long time.

"He doesn't like joining in. He hates being singled out. I guess pretending he knows nothing is easier than getting involved," he said at last. _And why do I feel like I can tell you anything?_

She nodded slowly. "I understand. Look… you can leave them here. I'll look after them. You can't go off and kill undead things in the middle of the night if you're worrying about them."

"You got a point. But how can I leave my kids with someone I don't know?"

"Pastor Jim vouched for you. And would he tell you to come here if he didn't think we could look out for you three? Besides, James is here too, and if need be, I have a certain circle of friends I can call on to--"

"Just you," John interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Just you. With Sammy and Dean. No-one else. Ok?"

She smiled and reached out, putting a hand on his arm. "Deal. Now go, and good luck."

"Fine. I just need to check on Dean first." He got up from the table, walking back through the quiet house and up the stairs, into the back room.

.

.


	4. When Push Comes To Shovel

**FOUR**

**When Push Comes To Shovel**

.

John found the big white bed and the small boy in the middle, propped up against the headboard with a mountain of pillows. His eyes were half closed on the comic book loose in his right hand. There was a familiar lump in the covers to his left, a large curled up thing with a mop of unruly mousy-brown hair sticking out of it.

"Hey there, champ," John smiled, walking in slowly.

Dean's eyes perked open abruptly and he shifted his head, looking over. "Hey, Dad."

"How you feeling? Ready to sleep a while now?" John asked, approaching the bed and sitting, careful not to wake Sam on the opposite side.

"Nah, I gotta come with you," he said quickly.

John put his finger to his lips, shushing him quickly. He pointed at Sam.

"If you come with me, who's gonna look out for Sammy, huh?" he smiled. Dean's lower lip stuck out suddenly and John sighed, shaking his head. "Look, son… I can do this with my eyes closed. But Sammy needs you. He can't eat or sleep if you're not here. Now what happens if you and me go, and Sammy wakes up and both of us are gone? What's he gonna do?"

"He'll be scared," Dean realised, looking at the sleeping child next to him.

"He'll be scared," John nodded. "Of course he will. Cos _you're_ not here."

"It's you, Dad. All he screams for is you," Dean protested.

"You really believe that?" John managed, amused and touched in equal measure. _Then you've never heard how he calls for you when he's sick and I'm trying to make him sleep_.

"Well, yeah," Dean shrugged, as if it should be obvious.

John grinned, leaning over and pulling him closer, hugging him tightly for a long moment. He closed his eyes, hanging onto his eldest son, tasting the fear of what could have been taken away from him just last night. He pulled him away slowly.

"You stay here, Dean. You protect Sammy, ok? I'll be back in the morning."

"You're gonna kill those grey men," Dean said slowly. "Those monsters."

John thought about it for a long time. He looked back at him, wondering what to say.

"Ah…" He looked into his little green eyes, saw the doubting expression, and suddenly saw Mary's face in there too. "Yes I am," he said proudly. "And do you know why?"

"Cos they're grey?" Dean hazarded.

"Cos they tried to take my boys away. And if _anyone_ dares try that, they get their butts kicked. You get me?"

"Yes sir," Dean chirped, and John grinned. He put his hand to his son's bed-hair, tousling it firmly.

"Right. Stick close to Sammy. I'll be back when it's light," he said confidently, getting up.

"Dad," he said quickly, and John hesitated. He turned and looked down at him.

Suddenly Dean seemed so small. John had always thought he was a wiry, gangly eight year old, able to knock another kid's teeth in if he were suitably provoked, but the wide white bed and the patch in his hairline suddenly made him look so tiny to John's eyes.

He sat down again slowly, waiting. Dean eyed him for a long moment. Eventually he looked down at Sam, still sleeping in a ball. Then he looked back at his father.

"You're like… You done this before? Kill… things?" he whispered.

John looked around the room slowly, looked over at Sam, still fast asleep, and then looked at his eldest son. "Yes," he said firmly.

Dean blinked at him with long, light-coloured lashes that reminded John so much of his late wife. "And… you're not scared?" the boy whispered.

John took a deep breath. He lifted a hand and set it on the small shoulder.

"I ain't scared of the monsters," he said confidently. "I ain't scared of fightin' or killin' the ugly sons of bucks." He sighed, forcing himself to continue. "Sometimes I'm scared somethin' will happen to you two."

"Really?" Dean managed timidly.

"Really." He smiled suddenly. "But then I remember that you got Sammy and I got you. Right?"

"Right," Dean smiled.

John grinned, leaning and kissing his son on the forehead.

"Yeeeuk!" Dean protested, and John chuckled as he let his shoulder go.

"Now you get some sleep, ok? You have to be rested to look out for Sammy till I get back."

"Yes Dad," he allowed, as John got up and made for the door. "Dad," Dean called suddenly.

John paused and looked back. "What is it, son?"

"Only _girls_ kiss people."

"Watch it," he grinned. "Wait here and don't touch anything. I'll be right back."

.

* * *

.

"Wait here and don't touch anything. I'll be right back," Chief Frost said briskly, stalking round them and going to the door.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance as she opened it and leaned her head out. She called something, apparently to officers at the end of the zig-zag passageway, as the boys let their hands slide into their pockets and began to wander.

She closed the door and walked back to the desk to see Dean's hand out on a folder. She slapped it off abruptly and he jumped.

"I _said_ don't touch anything," she pointed out.

Dean lifted his hand innocently and slid it down the front of his shirt and tie in an obvious admission of guilt. "Oh I wasn't touching anything… important," he managed lightly.

Sam nudged him and he looked back at him helplessly. One of Sam's eyes, his left one, thumbed its nose at the other and took off running. The other eye growled a threat and pounded after it, and the two of them hurled themselves round the eye sockets in a blur of speed and urgency. They came back to their original positions, out of breath and fully prepared to make the single circuit the only one for the moment.

Sam, unaware of the internal reasons for the round-the-block race in which his eyes had just participated, shifted to watch Chief Frost plonk herself down in her chair. She put her hands up and lifted the stack of files off her desk, placing them on the floor.

"Now then, you two want to take a seat and tell me what you're babbling about?"

The Winchesters looked around and found three wooden chairs against the far wall. They, too, were covered in stacks of cardboard files. Sam picked up a load and shifted it to the top of the filing cabinet.

"Well, you see, my partner here thinks we've got zombie problems," he said helpfully, lifting his chair and bringing it to the desk.

"So it seems. And just what branch of the FBI are you two supposed to be from?" she asked knowingly.

"Ah… Special Interest," Dean put in, his hands full of files as he looked around for somewhere to leave them. Every available place appeared to be full. "We specialise in ritual killings, people's constitutional right to practise whatever religion they found on Wikipedia this week, Greyhound buses being hijacked by passengers who claim to be wendigos, yadda yadda yadda," he continued, as to himself, as he walked to the only flat surface not covered in paperwork.

"Right," she smiled.

"The thing is, we're very interested in how this Neal Perry is supposed to have killed anyone after he was dead," Sam added earnestly.

"Well then, first things first," she nodded.

She leaned forward and opened her top left drawer, pulling out a two-page report and tossing it across the table at Sam. He picked it up as Dean lifted the wooden chair and brought it over. He sat finally, as Frost leaned forward again. She put her left elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, staring at him.

He was leaning to his right, nosing through the report from Sam's left side. She watched them read through it, a puzzled, tasked expression on her face.

Dean nodded and sat back. "So it's really Neal," he confirmed.

"It's really Neal," Sam shrugged. He looked at him. "Ideas?"

"Yeah - he's not all the way dead yet," he shrugged. "We're gonna have to check out the stiff tonight for any Romero'ing going on, and see if the love of his life is gonna Evil Ash her way out of the dirt too."

Sam cleared his throat and made his eyes dart toward the chief of police, still watching them.

"Ah… I mean we're gonna have a stake out involving the recently gan--. Ah, deceased," Dean amended steadily.

Sam paused, looking from one to the other. Dean appeared hopefully innocent, using a patented face Sam had seen many times before. Frost, however, looked baffled, or at least mired in severe pre-occupation.

"If that's ok with the Chief here," Dean added deliberately.

"Ye-eah," she said quietly, thinking hard. "It'll come to me."

"What will?"

"Who you look like. It'll come to me," she nodded.

"Great." Dean shivered, clearly unhappy with the prospect. He looked at Sam knowingly. "So we agreed on this stake out thing?"

"I am," Sam said, looking over at Frost.

She sat back abruptly, nodding. "If you two are going, so am I," she said. "There are no such things as zombies, but I'm prepared to believe someone might be grave-robbing."

"Seriously?" Sam pressed.

"That's what's going on the official report," she smiled back at him pointedly.

.

* * *

.

The BMW was certainly roomy, Chief Frost in the driver's seat, her binoculars ready in her lap. Dean was squirming and fidgeting in the passenger seat, apparently finding every small plastic button, switch and lever offensive to him.

"Why are we in _your_ car, again?" he muttered.

Frost leaned her forehead against the side window, sighing slightly. "Because this is private ground and I have the warrant to be here - you two don't."

"But I got all the weapons in ma car. When that zombie gets up--"

"Ok, first of all, there _is_ no zombie," she said irritably, lifting her head from the window and turning it to pin him with a look. "Second, if you want your precious weapons over and above the handguns I notice you two have already got, then why don't you go get them, Blond Boy Wonder."

"Ssshh!" Sam protested suddenly from the rear seat. His hands were on the seat corners before him, his head poking through the gap between the front headrests slightly. "Look."

They turned and looked out of the front windscreen, at the recently tilled earth covered expertly with prime turf.

"What?" she whispered, snatching up her binoculars to see across the thirty feet more accurately.

"There," Sam urged, letting go of the seat to point.

"I don't see nuthin'," Dean muttered.

"The tree," Sam hissed.

"The _tree_? What is this, '_Little Shop Of Horrors_'?" Dean managed.

"What's that?" Frost leaned forward in the seat. She tilted her head slightly. "There's something in the tree - looks like… Could be a man? Maybe? He's jumping out of the--. Bloody hell! How can you jump from that height and--"

She stopped, shocked, as the doors opened on her car. She realised both men had piled out of the vehicle. She threw the binoculars into the passenger seat. She leapt out of her door and caught sight of them already creeping across the grass.

The three of them kept to the shadows, sweeping ever closer. She saw the backs of the two suits in front of her, heard digging and grunting from somewhere else but close-by. She put her hand inside her jacket and drew her gun slowly, checking the safety was on before closing on the tall, strong form of Agent Peart. He had paused at the last tree, looking out over the graveyard. She looked around.

"Where's Lee?" she whispered.

Sam turned and pointed. She looked over and found the other FBI suit cutting round the side, obviously planning to come from two angles. She nodded and pushed at Sam's shoulder, sliding along in the opposite direction.

Sam waited, drawing his own Taurus handgun as he crouched at the tree line.

He heard a weapon being cocked and looked up.

"Alright, you freaky bastard - explain why you're digging her up!" Dean demanded, his arms out straight, his Colt 1911 trained on the man holding the shovel.

"Neal!" Frost gasped, shocked.

The young man turned and looked in her direction. Her right hand came off the gun, her left pointing it up and to the sky harmlessly as her finger came off the trigger.

"Neal, it's me, it's me!" she cried urgently. "Put the spade down, Neal!"

The man took one step toward her, his hands tightening on the long wooden handle of the shovel.

"Neal Perry!" Sam snapped, his gun aimed at his head. "Seriously, put that down!"

"Give it to me," Frost said calmly, stepping forward.

"Chief!" Dean hissed.

Neal Perry took one more step. He growled something unintelligible, lifting the shovel slowly.

"That's it," Frost said soothingly, "hand it to me, that's it."

"Chief, get _back_," Dean ordered.

"Shut up, Lee." She took another step forward.

Neal snarled. He raised the shovel over his head. He lunged forward. Sam and Dean emptied two entire magazines into him. The spread of ammunition halted his forward momentum. The clips ran dry. He staggered, caught his balance. He brought the shovel down in an arc at Frost.

Frost was bringing her own gun up. She already knew it was too late. But something large barrelled into her from her left side. She went down in a heap, hearing running and shouting somewhere in front of her.

Her first impulse was the struggle. But she opened her eyes and found she was being held to the ground partially sheltered by a black FBI suit. She calmed herself, listening to the shocked, angry breathing so close to her ear. She hitched herself up on her elbows. She put her right hand up and pushed the large, hard shoulder from her front. It rolled up and away and the head close to her ear disappeared.

She heard an almost embarrassed clearing of someone's throat, and another arm pushed her up from behind, helping her to sit up in the wet grass.

She pulled her jacket straight, pushing hair from her face and finding herself unsurprised to see Special Agent Lee rolling to a seated position too. She just looked at him.

"And you did that because?" she asked archly.

"Because he was tryin' to - uh - take your head off with a shovel?" Dean shrugged helplessly. She stared at him. Hard. He just produced a weak, well-meaning smile with a slight nod and she let her harsh gaze relax.

"Fair enough." She got up slowly, dusting herself down and looking around for her gun. Dean climbed to his feet too, picking up both fallen guns and proferring hers handle-first. "Thanks," she managed.

They looked up at the sound of fast feet in the grass. Sam came jogging back, shaking his head.

"Guess what?" he panted.

"He's fast like a freak?" Dean hazarded.

"Yahtzee," Sam allowed, putting his hands on his knees and getting some breath back.

"Super. So now we don't know if he was the first, so it's gonna be harder to work out who started all this off so we can get 'em all staked," Dean tutted.

"The first what?" Frost interrupted. "You don't think he's a--"

"Well he's supposed to be dead and buried," Dean shot back. "And we just riddled him with more holes than a cheese grater. And did he look alive and glowing with health to you?"

"Look, slow down," she said loudly, spreading her hands. "Just cos he ran off after apparently getting shot does not mean--"

"Do you have reason to believe he was wearing a vest?" Sam asked reasonably.

"Well, he might have--"

"Yeah right, what is he, a cautious grave-robber? Afraid of slow-motion drive-by shootings from hearses on the midnight shift?" Dean scoffed. "Come on Chief, pull the other one - it's got witches' balls on it."

"What?" she asked sharply. "You mouthy--"

"Calm down," Sam said quickly, as Frost marched up to Dean and glared angry death at him.

Dean put his hands up in defence. "Woah woah woah, all I meant was--"

"I know what you meant!" she snapped, realising the darkness, the fright, the adrenaline had all surged to her head. She huffed and then looked away, trying to calm herself.

"Neal must think Hannah can't get out by herself - so is he the only zombie?" Sam said smoothly, covering the awkward silence of the night. "What do we do next? Wait for him to try again with this exhuming?"

Frost took a step back, eyeing Dean with something akin to suspicion - or perhaps curiosity. "I don't think he'll come back tonight though, do you?" she asked slowly.

"I wouldn't," Sam agreed. He looked at Dean, who was trying not to look at Frost. "Well?"

"Yeah, that's a natch. Can we go now? _Something_'s creeping me out," Dean added darkly.

Sam looked from him to Frost, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. We should make tracks. Ah… Chief, can we meet up with you in the morning?" he asked.

She looked at him, but he could tell she was pre-occupied.

"Yeah, sure," she said. "You know where my office is."

"Thanks," Sam nodded.

"Yeah," she managed.

She turned and watched Dean walk off past her and back toward the main road, and the Impala waiting patiently at the public kerb.

.

.


	5. Dig A Hole

**FIVE**

**Dig A Hole**

.

Dean pulled his tie loose as he pushed the door to the motel open smartly. Sam followed, watching surreptitiously as his elder brother banged his way round the room, locating his duffle. He threw it on the bed, yanking t-shirts and jeans out quickly.

Sam went to his own bed, furthest from the door, and dropped his duffle onto it. Dean ripped off the black suit jacket angrily, undoing the buttons on his shirt cuffs in short order.

"What?" Sam asked innocently, noticing him slipping off the semi-polished black ankle boots.

"What? What?" Dean echoed, surprised. "We're gettin' outta here before that chief of police runs a check on us and finds us bogus as a nine dollar bill," he snapped.

"Woah - hang on a second," Sam said quickly. "We don't know she's going to--"

"Sam, what are you, five? You see the way she's been lookin' at us?" he demanded, turning to stare at him.

_You_, Sam's mind interrupted. _The way she's been looking at you_.

"C'mon, man," Dean went on, oblivious of Sam's observations. "She _knows_ we're not on the level. If the cops ain't busting the door down tomorrow morning it'll only be 'cos they forgot to set their alarms."

"Dean, slow down," Sam urged. "She doesn't even know where we're staying."

"Sam - how small is this town? The reception girl probably gossips to half the girls in that station," he pointed out.

"Oh. Yeah," Sam conceded. "But if we move to another motel, she'll find out about that, too. At least if we pretend to work with her we'll know if she's about to try and arrest us - or check up on us," he reasoned.

"And what if it's her? She's gonna want us arrested or dead so she don't have to--"

"You seriously think it's her?" Sam interrupted.

"Could be!"

"Why?"

"Cos - I don't know!" Dean protested. "Just… something's not right about her - something makes me uncomfortable--"

"Then we stick close to her and make sure doesn't kill anyone else! And if it's not her and we're useful and solve this case quickly, then one, she won't bother checking up on us and two, we'll be gone."

The elder Winchester wrenched at buttons, tearing the white shirt off. He folded the sleeves in and then rolled the whole garment up tightly, turning to his bed and duffle.

"That's bullcrap and you know it - the closer we stick to her, the more likely it is that she'll work out we're not Feds and incarcerate our asses, telling the _real_ Feds about it in the process, and then _they'll_ know we ain't dead and all the Wanted poster crap starts all over again." He pulled his white vest straight with an abrupt huff.

"She's a Wiccan."

"So?" Dean demanded. "Where is it written in her personal Book Of Shadows '_thou shalt not arrest bogus FBI agents_'?"

"Dean, that's not what I meant!" Sam called over his brother's short fuse. "I meant that if she does decide we're breaking the law we could probably avoid getting arrested by just telling her the truth about who we are and why we're after zombies in the first place. She's not exactly an unreasonable person, is she?"

Dean turned to face his brother as if in slow-motion, and Sam waited, growing more and more perturbed. At last Dean's gaze swept round and he looked at his younger sibling with a mixture of horror and dawning realisation.

"You _sweet_ on this chief?" he dared, his head tilted slightly in disbelief.

"What? No!" Sam protested.

"Sam?"

"No! Why would I--." He stopped and huffed, letting his shoulders sag abruptly. "Look, man, all I'm saying is, she doesn't exactly seem the type to arrest us if we just told her who we were! She'd realise we could help save her coven of Wiccans," he pressed.

Dean chewed on the side of his lip slowly, his eyebrows rammed down in indecision.

"And if we leave, what about Neal? Hannah?" Sam pressed. "We can't just leave this unsolved."

"I know," Dean snapped, clearly unhappy with the prospect. "Neal's dead and recently reanimated, so he ain't going to stray far from home," he grunted. "And Hannah - we'll be there tomorrow night to make sure Neal don't finally get her out. We'll just have to do it without the Wiccan Witch of the Watch finding us."

"Ok," Sam shrugged. "But I still don't see what's so odd about her."

Dean's face darkened. "Trust me, Sam, she is not what she looks like."

.

* * *

.

"Trust me, Sam, she is not what she looks like," Dean said wisely, holding his little brother's hand tightly. Sam sat on the side of the bed, staring at Nara with wide, fearful eyes.

"I don't eat it if Daddy or Dean didn't make it," Sam pouted.

Nara looked from him to the bowl of soup on the tray in her hands. "I made it for you," she said warmly. "C'mon, Sammy, just a little."

"You don't call me Sammy," he said peevishly, then turned and buried his head in Dean's arm. Dean sighed philosophically and lifted it, waiting for Sam to scooch underneath and wrap his arms round him. He looked at Nara apologetically.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "He just don't like strange food."

"It's only soup," she shrugged. "And I don't think you two boys have eaten much today, am I right? All you've done is argue about your Dad going off like that. And I heard you reading that comic to Sam for the last two hours when you should have been sleeping."

Dean's eyes dropped to the soup. "Well," he said loudly, lifting his chin and deliberately looking at the ceiling, "I'm gonna eat all of it. I've been real busy today and I need lotsa food." He sniffed, waiting, and felt Sam's head shift backwards slightly. "Sammy won't need any, so I'm gonna eat all of that, and that hot bread, too."

Sam's head edged out and a tiny, blinking eye appeared from under Dean's arm. It looked at Nara and her soup.

"She _is_ what she looks like," he sniffed on a whisper.

"No she ain't. She _looks_ like a girl but she's really an angel."

"An angel?" Sam blurted. "Like Mom?"

"Like Mom," Dean confirmed. "If you don't wanna eat angel-made soup, that's great. I'll have all of it. Anyways I'm bigger than you, I need more."

"You will not," Sam said quickly with rising indignation. He pushed himself out from under his brother's arm and sat next to him on the wide bed. "I'm smaller, _I_ need more'n you."

"Right," Dean allowed scathingly, but as he reached out and took the tray from Nara, he winked slyly. She grinned and handed him the tray, helping him to sit it on his knees on top of the blankets. Sam squirmed to fit behind it too, picking up a large spoon from the wooden tray. "Slowly," Dean said before he could slop it into the soup. "You spill this an' you ain't getting any more."

"I won't spill it," he protested. "Bread please."

Dean picked up a piece of still-warm fresh bread and handed it to him. Sam took it and dipped it in the soup carefully.

"Try to get most of it into your mouth," Dean sighed, watching him wave it about in front of his face. "It's just like colouring in, Sammy, you gotta keep it inside the lines," he advised, and Nara stood slowly. She grinned affectionately, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head at Dean.

"You know what? You're something else," she sighed.

Dean looked up at her. "You make good soup. Hey, you married?" he asked suddenly.

"Not yet," she grinned.

"Are you old?" Sam asked, his mouth full of soupy bread. "Cos you don't look old."

"I'm seventeen," she chuckled.

"Oh. You wanna marry Daddy?" Sam asked. Dean nudged him, offended, but Sam just turned large eyes on him. "What? Then she can be our soup angel _all_ the time."

"Sammy, shut up and eat your bread," he said, his face a little red.

Nara just chuckled at them. She heard someone calling for her and sighed. "You two stay here, finish all of that," she said. "I'll be right back. Try not to spill it, Sammy."

"Sam," Dean corrected absently.

"Samuel!" Sam chirped, giggling.

She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Sam nudged his brother slightly. "She's not an angel," he whispered.

"How do you know?" Dean challenged.

"Cos she don't have wings."

"Not every angel has wings, Sammy," Dean scoffed. "It's like Clarence, right? He didn't get his wings till right at the end of the movie - and even then we never even saw 'em."

"Oh yeah," Sam nodded, picking up the spoon again and dipping it in the bowl. "So… we have to listen for a bell?"

"Yeah. Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings," Dean intoned. Sam giggled and Dean looked down at him. "What?"

"You sound like Daddy," he laughed.

"You sound like you want me to eat your soup," Dean pointed out. Sam giggled but put his spoon into his mouth with effort.

The door opened suddenly and Nara flew in, flustered. She closed the door and leaned back on it.

"Ok, boys?" she asked quickly. They looked up and Dean recognised worry on her face.

"What is it? Is it Dad?"

"He's not back yet. But… there are police here. They're looking for two boys and their father."

"No! I don't wanna go!" Sam wailed immediately.

"We ain't going," Dean hissed at him angrily. "We're waitin' here for Dad!"

"That's right," she said quickly. "So listen carefully. When the police come in, I will say that you two are _my_ boys, alright?"

"Alright," Dean nodded slowly, digesting this.

"You have to pretend your dad isn't your dad - just until the police officer has gone. Got it?"

"Got it," Dean confirmed. "So… Who's our dad?"

"Er - James," she said, off-hand.

"Is he your boyfriend?" Dean asked innocently.

"He lives here too, he's one of our Thirteen," she said quickly. "Pretend like him and me are married, right?"

There was an abrupt knock on the door. She gasped and leapt off it, waving the boys to silence as she opened the door.

"Mrs Harrison? Mrs Nara Harrison?" came a man's voice.

Sam squealed in fright. Dean slapped a hand over the smaller boy's mouth and took the spoon from his hand carefully. He let go of his face and Sam clutched at him, shivering in fear. Dean pushed the tray further down his legs, sliding it onto the bed.

The door opened wider and then a man walked into the room. He surveyed the place coldly, his gaze stopping when he caught sight of the two boys in the bed and the large white patch in the older boy's hairline.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said amiably. "And who might you be?"

Sam sniffled and hid his head in Dean's t-shirt. Dean put an arm round him defensively, lifting his chin at the tall man.

"He's John, I'm Robin," he said bravely. "Who are you?"

"I'm Officer Daniel Watts," he said with a smile. "And where's your dad?"

"I dunno, I been sleepin'." He paused. "Mom, where's Dad?" He ignored the man to try to see Nara behind him. She cleared her throat quietly, and the officer turned to look at her.

"He's out," she allowed, putting her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

"Right. Ain't you a little young to have kids this age?" he asked.

"Just cos she ain't our real mom don't mean she ain't our - uh - new mom," Dean protested. The officer turned back to look at him.

"Your real mom?" he prompted. "Where is she now?"

"She died," Dean muttered. He looked away from the policeman quickly. "She died."

Nara went to the bed quickly, sitting and putting her hand out on Dean's arm in a soothing gesture that was not lost on the peace officer.

"Right," he nodded, beginning to look sheepish. "And ah… how long has she been your new mom?"

"Since she made us soup," Sam piped up, bright innocence one his little face. "She's a soup angel. She's _our_ soup angel. She don't have wings, but that's cos we didn't hear a bell yet."

"O-k," the officer managed in confusion, turning to the door. "I'm sorry to have intruded." He turned to the door. "One more thing, Mrs Harrison?"

"Yes, officer?" she asked.

"Make sure you lock this place up tight. There's strange folk about at night these days."

"Yes, sir," she allowed, following him to the door.

She walked out with him, and Dean blew out a big sigh of relief. He sagged back to the headboard, staring at the ceiling. Sam leaned back too, his head on Dean's arm.

"Dean," he whispered.

"Hmm?"

"You know you said you're Robin?"

"Hmm."

"Well why do I got to be John?"

Dean lifted his head and looked at him, a huge grin on his face. "Cos you're _little_," he teased.

"Well one day I won't be little - fact, I'll be taller'n even _you_ - and then _you'll_ have to be John," he groused, but Dean chuckled.

"Short-stuff, you ain't never gonna be taller than me."

"Will too!"

Dean just grinned. He sat up and reached for the food again. "Eat the soup," he advised.

.

* * *

.

John pulled out his key and slid it in the wooden door silently. He opened it up and crept in, finding James in the chair in the hallway.

James looked at him and nodded genially. John gestured to the house, and James waved him in.

"Evenin', Mr Harrison," he smiled, nodding appreciatively.

"The police were here," James said quietly.

"What? Why?" John hissed.

"Lookin' for you and your boys. Nara foxed 'em. They left," he said.

"Holy Hell," John sighed, wiping his forehead wearily. "I'm sorry, James, I really am. I had no idea they'd know where we were."

"It's alright," James smiled. "One of our Thirteen works in the Records Office. When she's not re-arranging tables to conform to the proper natural order of lay-lines and the like, she's ferreting out and being absent-minded with certain reports."

John shook his head. "You people got it all figured out."

"Safety in numbers," he shrugged. "We would ask you to join us, but we already got the requisite amount," he joked.

"Thanks," John allowed, inclining his head slightly. "Where are the boys?"

"Sleeping, I don't doubt. Nara said she'd look out for them."

"Thanks," John nodded. He walked on through the house, making his way to the back room. He opened the door quietly, looking in and pausing.

Nara was asleep on her back on the right side of the bed, and as such, nearest the door. She had knocked her shoes off and simply pulled the edge of the blankets up over her. Dean was asleep, his back to her but suspiciously close to her for a boy who didn't trust anyone, Sam in a tiny ball in his loose arms. Nara's left arm was under his pillow, her hand poking out enough for the boys to have commandeered it. Whether it was for the pleasant female smell or the warmth was unclear.

John sighed and walked in, dropping his duffle to the floor silently. He inched the door closed and crept over to the bed. He scooped Sam up gently and the four year old didn't even flinch as John rolled himself onto the left side of the bed. He pushed himself down, waiting for Dean to finish sighing and muttering something before he readjusted his sleeping arrangements.

John looked down at him and smiled fondly, moving Sam about gently in his arms. The tiny boy simply moulded to his new sleeping shape and got on with it, and John rested his head back against the pillow.

"Dad," came Dean's sleepy voice.

John opened eyes he hadn't realised he had let close. "Yes, Dean."

"Those grey men. They weren't men, right?"

"Right."

"There were monsters, right?"

"Right."

There was silence for nearly five minutes. Then: "What kinda monsters?"

"Dean, go to sleep," he whispered.

But there was a shuffling noise and John felt his eldest shifting to lie his head against his arm. He opened his weary eyes and looked at him in the gloom.

"What now?" John breathed. He transferred Sam to his left arm comfortably, putting his other out and round Dean.

"Well… What kinda monsters were they?"

"Why?" John whispered.

"Cos… cos if I see 'em again, I need to know," Dean reasoned. "Next time I'm goin' with you. And next time I'll help you fight 'em."

"No, Dean, you don't need to do that," he said firmly.

"Yeah, Dad. Cos when you weren't in the car and it was just me an' Sammy, I didn't know what to do. If I'da knew what to do, I coulda stopped them."

John sighed with unease. "It's not as simple as that," he allowed.

"Then tell me," Dean grumped, his dark green eyes flashing in the dingy light. "What were they?"

"Zombies," John said wearily. "Zombies."

"Like… George A Romero zombies?"

John felt himself smile at the absurdity. "No. Yes. No." He paused and regrouped.

"Tell me what I need to know, Dad."

John's smile faded and he sighed. "The first thing you need to know is that there are many different kinds of zombies."

.

* * *

.

"The first thing you need to know is that there are many different kinds of zombies," Sam said clearly, watching Chief Frost's face.

They were in her office, a patently earnest Sam sitting at the guest end of Frost's desk, watching her leaf through a very old pamphlet of spurious origin on the undead.

"Uh-huh. And assuming I believe all this, what type is Neal Perry?" she muttered.

"Uh… He would appear to be the indentured servitude type," he hazarded. "He didn't seem capable of speech and didn't recognise you even when you spoke to him close-up. I take it you knew him?"

"He was an ex of Hannah's, so yeah, we knew each other well enough to chat for a few minutes if we ended up stuck in an elevator," she shrugged. She paused in her reading, looking up at Sam, but her eyes seemed very vacant. "It was so weird, just seeing him… I mean, seeing him but seeing it wasn't really him, y'know? Like there was nothing in there. Like... he just wasn't around any more."

"Yeah," Sam allowed.

"Talking of things not being around, where's Agent Lee?" she asked innocently.

"He's just following up a few leads," he nodded. "We're trying to work out why Neal came to be undead." He straightened. "So anyway, can I ask how well you knew Hannah?"

"Oh. Well, she and I were good friends. Very good friends," she allowed.

"And by that you mean…?"

"I mean we were very good friends," she replied innocently.

Sam's smile was too wide and too polite, coming across apologetic as too many teeth were on show. "Ah… She didn't… I mean, she didn't dump Neal for… well, for you, did she?" he havered.

Frost looked at him for a long moment. Then she simply burst into laughter, leaning back in her chair and slapping her leg in abderian amusement. She couldn't seem to stop, and Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. He looked round her office, his face doing its best not to turn red, feeling eternally grateful Dean was not there too.

Frost calmed herself and shook her head at him. "I was… I helped her into our Thirteen," she chuckled, wiping at an eye. "About the last thing I did before I… left. If you know as much about Wiccans as you pretend, you should know what that means."

"Oh," Sam nodded quickly. "So, to all intents and purposes, you were like… a mother figure?"

"Exactly," she grinned. "Thanks for adding the 'figure'," she winked.

"Well you don't look old enough to--"

"Your flattery is touching, really, Agent Peart. But that doesn't really help us here, does it?"

There was a harsh banging on the door and both of them jumped.

"Come!" she called.

The door was flung open and the young female officer on duty swept in. "Sorry to barge in, Chief," she breathed. "Another death - this one's nasty."

"What?" Frost snapped, getting to her feet. "Who is it? How did it happen?"

"It's Annette Watts." She took a deep breath. "Looks like some kind of psycho attack."

.

.


	6. Fill It Up

**SIX**

**Fill It Up**

.

Sam slid into the passenger seat and Chief Frost rammed the keys into the ignition. She gunned the engine on the BMW and stamped on the accelerator even as Sam was closing the door.

"Belt," she barked at him as she whipped the car out of the parking lot and checked the traffic on the road before joining it. He scrambled for the safety belt, pulling it across him and clunking it home as she tore off down the road.

"So you know Annette Watts, too?" he asked carefully.

"What do you think?" she snapped. She spied Sam pulling out his phone and put her attention back to the road.

Sam pressed the speed-dial and waited impatiently. The line clicked. "Hey," he said quickly. "Another death. We're not sure yet, we're on the way." He paused. "Yeah. Annette Watts. Sounds suspicious," he said.

"What are you doing?" she demanded as she watched the traffic, weaving around the other cars expertly.

"Just drive," Sam advised. "No, not you," he said to the phone. "Look, just call me when you have something on Neal. Yeah. Ok." He pressed a button and slid the phone back into his inside pocket. "Agent Lee is going see what he can come up with on the deceased so far."

"Annette is - _was_ - one of the Thirteen," she snapped. "You can keep your noses well clear until I've had a chance to look at the crime scene."

"Fair enough," he allowed.

The remaining twenty-minute drive was fraught with nerves and Sam holding onto the strap near him to avoid looking out of the front window. He pretended to be only half as relieved as he really felt when she stopped the car and leapt out, slamming the door behind her.

She rushed up to the three officers on the lawn, gently turning local residents away. They stopped as they saw Frost approaching the front door.

"Chief!" an officer called, deliberately standing across her path. "Chief, wait a second!"

She bumped into him and grabbed his arm, about to shift him out of her way. "Confirm the deceased," she demanded.

"Annette Watts, ma'am," he said quickly. "It's nasty," he blurted.

"How?" she snapped.

"She's… There's blood all over, ma'am. Head's been lopped off." The officer swallowed, but whether it was to do with what he had seen or the Chief's face was anyone's guess.

"And it's really Annette?"

"Yes ma'am - can't see any signs of a break-in, either. Cole found her not one hour ago, ma'am. He'd been out to the store, came back and found her like that."

"Right." She paused, pulling her jacket straight and sniffing professionally. "Has he given a statement?

"They're taking him back to the station to do that, Chief."

"Good. Please ask them to wait, I'd like to do it myself," she nodded.

"Will do," he said briskly, stepping out of her way and going for his radio.

"Thank you, Brett."

"May I?" came a voice from behind her, above her head, and she sighed.

"Yes, Agent Peart, you may," she managed. Then she walked round Officer Brett and into the house.

.

* * *

.

Dean walked down the stone path slowly, banging his phone loosely against his fingers. He stopped at the bottom of the pathway, turning back to look at the house. The old lady at the door nodded and waved to him cheerfully, and he smiled politely, giving a small wave as he opened her gate and went back to the Impala.

He walked round the driver's side, pulling out his keys and thinking for a long minute as he sorted through them, finding the right one. He lifted it but fumbled them suddenly, making a half-hearted grab at them as they plummeted to the asphalt.

He tutted and pulled his tie a little loose, unbuttoning the top constricting shirt button and then bending down to the fallen keys. He grabbed them, but as he was straightening he caught sight of something in the shiny door of the Impala.

He turned slowly, looking at the house opposite the old lady's. He blinked, starting to stare. His eyes ranged over the trees behind it, the bushes sprawled over the front lawn, the unkempt gate and windows. He noticed the slightly peeling paint and occasional broken flagstone, the clean windows, the net curtains inside perfectly arranged and bright white.

He stared even as he unlocked the car and opened the door. He looked down to climb into the car, wondering if the image of the house were haunting him, or if he really did recognise it from somewhere.

He shook his head and pulled his phone open. He pressed the speed-dial and waited.

"Dean?" came the instant prompt from the other end of the phone.

"Sam, it's me. I've just had afternoon tea with a very nice old lady who knows everyone in the town. Guess what?"

"Ah… Annette's family were Wiccans, part of the local coven?"

"How'd you know?" Dean grumped.

"Cos so was Hannah. And so is the Chief - or maybe that should be so '_was_' the Chief."

"The Wiccan Witch of the Watch, Hannah and her boyfriend, and Annette off the same list. Could be a vendetta - someone attacking all the Thirteen? Except the old lady just said the Chief's not in the Thirteen any more."

"Did she say why?" Sam replied, and Dean heard voices and movement behind him.

"Something about power struggles and upset," Dean shrugged. "I still think someone's after the Thirteen though. It could be a rival coven for all we know - but why get zombies to do their bidding? Why not just spell 'em to death or something?"

"Dean, they're Wiccans - '_an ye harm none, do what you will_'?" he quoted. "If they harm someone through spellwork, they're supposed to expect it visited back on them threefold." There was no answer and Sam waited. And waited. "Dean?"

"Yeah, no, yeah, that's… It's disturbing that you know so much about Wiccans," he said, and he did indeed sound troubled.

"Whatever. I don't think it's a Wiccan doing this."

"Well someone sure is bumping them off, and it wouldn't be the first time one of the barrel's spoilt it for all the other apples. You at the crime scene?"

"Yeah. Someone apparently took Annette Watts' head off with a blunt tool - possibly a spade, but no weapon's been found as yet. And get this," he added quickly, "Hannah was also decapitated. That wasn't in the official report."

"Huh."

"Annette's husband is at the station, the Chief's going to take his statement herself," Sam sighed.

"Are we invited?"

"I'm working on it, but the Chief's a bit… upset. She knew Annette."

"Like she knew Hannah and Neal - you sure it ain't her?"

"Dean," Sam scowled.

"Maybe it's like a '_Secret Window_' gig - she's doing the whole Johnny Depp thing and passing out, killing people before she wakes up again."

"Just see what you can dig up on rival covens?" Sam sighed.

"Ok, but if we find her cat pinned to her front door, I am putting her down," Dean shrugged.

"Go," Sam tutted.

Dean dropped the phone into the passenger seat and started the engine.

.

* * *

.

Dean pulled up at the police station, squeaking the door open and locking up the Impala slowly. He looked around as he walked across the nearly empty car park, jumping up the stone steps. He pulled the glass front door open and walked in, stopping at the counter.

He pulled his black fold-over wallet out of his jacket and looked at the young man on duty.

"Hey there. Agent Lee, looking for the Chief?" he asked.

The man nodded. "She said for you to go to the interview room as soon as you get in," he replied smartly.

"Right. Which one?"

"Uh - we ah - we only have one," the officer said apologetically, leaning over the counter and pointing to Dean's left.

"Of course. Thanks," he said quickly, sparing him a slight smile as he turned and headed off.

He walked down the corridor until he came to a single door that was half window. A blind had been drawn on the inside and he knocked softly.

It opened after a moment and Chief Frost looked at him. Her eyes went up and down him suspiciously, and he had time to feel affronted before she gestured him in with her head. He moved toward the gap and she stepped back, but not enough. He found himself squeezing past her and for a moment wondered why she didn't simply give way, as there was plenty of space behind her.

Then he was in the room, finding Sam sat across a large brown wooden table from an older man. He had his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, and from the anguished noises coming from his hidden face, it was clear he was in no mood to talk to anyone.

"Agent Lee, this is Cole Watts, Annette's husband," Frost whispered.

Dean looked at her, then over at the man. Sam turned in his seat and looked at his brother, a sympathetic look of helplessness on his face. He shook his head slowly and Dean put his hands in his pockets, walking over. He stopped at the table, looking over Sam's shoulder. He spotted a notepad and Sam's handwriting on it, reading the notes quickly. He took his right hand from his pocket and tapped at the last sentence.

'_Married 5 yrs. Spade used - zombie weapon of choice? A zombie Hit on the wife - why not the husband too?_'

His eyebrows went up in a need for confirmation and Sam looked up at him. He shrugged slightly, looking lost, and Dean put his hand back in his pocket. He thought for a moment, then looked down again, considering the pad as if it were a new oil filter.

He looked up at the man, still sobbing into his hands. He cleared his throat and looked back at Sam, then gestured to the door with his head. Sam looked at him - just looked. Dean gestured again, his eyes darting over more toward the exit, and Sam's eyebrows went up in dramatic disbelief. He shrugged, picking up his pad and getting up from the table.

He turned and caught sight of the Chief. She was leaning back against the wall, arms folded, appraising them both. He walked to the door and opened it, waving her out. She blinked large, owlish eyes at him before pushing herself off the wall and walking out. He followed, closing the door behind them.

Dean waited until they were gone. He looked around at the walls, glad there was a single one-way mirror behind him and not in front. He pulled Sam's chair round and sat slowly, leaning his forearms on the table. He cleared his throat, lacing his fingers together and sniffing slightly.

"Mr Watts?" he said clearly.

The man didn't respond, except to try to stifle his tears somewhat.

"Mr Watts, I'm with the FBI," Dean continued loudly. "I need you to help me find who did this."

For a long moment there was no reply. At last the man lifted his head. His face, red with regret and tears, spoke of deep and soul-destroying grief.

Dean didn't even flinch. "You want us to find the son of a bitch who did this? You gotta help us," he said deliberately.

"How can you sit there and ask me that, not two hours after I found my wife all--"

"Mr Watts!" Dean interrupted harshly. "If you want me to waste my time saying I'm sorry and that it's a terrible thing, and that you need time for your grief and all that crap, then fine, I can do that," he snapped. "But if you want me to find out who did this, you're gonna have to stow it till we get the bastard and we make sure he ain't gonna do it again. To someone else's wife. You get me?"

Cole Watts stared. His mouth moved slightly. Then he nodded.

"Good," Dean managed curtly. "So tell me - anyone been watching your place, following your route to work, always appearing in the same place at the same time just when you're meeting up with Annette?"

"N - no," he stammered. He blinked over-flowing blue eyes, staunching the spill. "No-one."

"Anyone acting weird round her, like taking extra interest, or checking her plans for the day, anything like that?" Dean continued with a biting harshness that kept Mr Watts' eyes glued on him.

"No," he swallowed. "Everyone loves - _loved_ - Annette," he whispered.

"Did anyone give her anything? Like a… a small bag of weird crap like bird bones, a cool little gizmo that rattled, something made out of plush, furry hair-like stuff, anything?"

"No," Mr Watts managed, starting to look horrified.

"Look, you're a Wiccan, right?"

Cole Watts just stared at Dean in fear.

Dean waved a hand at him. "Relax, Mr Watts, it ain't against the law, and it ain't any of my business. But it _does_ mean that maybe you'd notice more weird crap going down than the average church-goer, know what I mean?"

Mr Watts nodded, wiping his face quickly.

"So any of the Thirteen been odd lately?"

"Our Thirteen?" he blurted, surprised. "No! None of them would want to hurt--"

"Maybe not to her face," Dean snapped. "But sending out creatures to do their dirty work for them would be easy."

"Not for one of us!" he asserted, with the first show of backbone Dean had seen. "When Hannah died, Annette was allowed entry. There _are_ only thirteen places, you know, _agent_," he stressed. "There's no physical reason anyone would want to make it twelve."

"No physical reason? Who gets in if there's another sudden vacancy?" he demanded.

"I don't know! You'd have to ask James."

"James who?"

"James Harrison - he's the Wiccan leader."

"James… Harrison…" Dean muttered, his face twisting into unpleasant pre-occupation.

"Yes, James Harrison," he countered, starting to sound more combative. Cole stopped, eyeing the dour FBI agent and his glowering face. "What?" he asked lamely.

"Just…" _Why do I know that name? James Harrison… James Harrison… Where have I heard it before…?_ Dean cleared his throat quickly. "What about this Harrison guy?"

"He's… the leader. Talk to him," Cole swallowed. He sat back in his chair, looking at Dean as if Boxing Day had come and all of his Christmas presents had disappeared as if they had never been. "Can I see my wife now? I have to identify the… the body," he added quietly.

Dean studied the man's face for a long moment. Then he stood slowly, letting his hands slide into his pockets.

"I'll get the Chief," he said tonelessly, turning and walking to the door. He opened it just as something grey and angry hurled itself through the door, pushing him to one side as it did so.

"Move," Frost bit out as she swept into the room. Dean paused to get his balance, noticing her walk straight up to the table and put her hands out flat on it. She leaned on them to look at Mr Watts. "Cole, you ok?" she said quickly.

"Not really," he allowed, unable to meet her gaze. "Can I go to Annette now?"

"Of course," she said, coming round the side of the table and putting a hand to his arm. She guided him to his feet and he paused once up, looking at her for a long moment. She released his arm and he tried a small smile. She gestured to the door with her head and he nodded, walking toward it.

She waited until he had left the room, then stalked to the door herself. She wanged it open and marched out, finding the two agents down the hallway.

"Little harsh, dude," Agent Peart was saying, a dark look of disapproval on his face.

"Hey, we're workin', ain't we?" the blonder agent groused. "And we got a name."

"You'll get a slap if you pull another stunt like that," Frost called over from the doorway.

The two agents looked over at her, the taller one rather apologetic, the shorter one distinctly unmoved.

"In my office. _N__ow_," she barked.

The two agents looked at each other. Then Peart's eyebrows knitted together like a squally day at the beach, reprimanding the shorter man. Lee just looked back at him with eyes that could have been one-way mirrors themselves. Peart huffed and Lee's eyes ranged all over the hallway until he turned and walked off down the corridor with the stride of the unjustly blamed. Peart looked at Frost.

"We're going," he allowed, and she watched them disappear back toward reception, and the zig-zag pathway to her office beyond.

.

.


	7. Headstrong

**SEVEN**

**Headstrong**

.

Frost walked into the office and slammed the door behind her. She found the two FBI agents wandering around the room, the taller one with his hands in his pockets, the shorter one rifling through loose-leaf folders absently.

"Just who the _hell_ do you think you are?" she demanded.

They looked over at her.

"Chief, look, we know that--" Sam began.

"Agent Peart, forgive me for saying this, but _shut it_," she snapped. Sam closed his mouth abruptly, surprised. Frost looked at Dean, jabbing a finger at him. "What in the world possessed you to interrogate the distraught husband _of the victim_!" she shouted.

Dean's eyes narrowed on her. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and put his hands in his trouser pockets.

"You wanna sit around till he feels better?" he accused. "You wanna wait for him to get over the biggest, most horrible thing in his life so he can start talking to us?"

"The least you could do is _pretend_ to be sympathetic!" she shouted.

"Why, what would that get us, except a few hours of blubbing and time-wasting?" Dean shot back. "At least now we know we should be talking to this James Harrison! A fact _you_ neglected to mention!"

"You never said you thought it was someone from the Thirteen!" she argued. "If you had, maybe I could have helped you!"

"Alright!" Sam called over the noise. Dean and Frost looked at him quickly. "There's no point getting angry over it - what's done is done. We have to talk to James Harrison and find out who's left out of the Thirteen, and who would want to hurt any of them - including you, Chief," he added simply.

"You think I could be killing--"

"You could be _next_," Sam interrupted.

She looked over at him slowly. "I'm not in the Thirteen," she admitted. "Not any more."

"Yeah - and why _is_ that?" Dean demanded pointedly.

"Personal reasons. Ones I don't have to share with the FBI," she asserted. "Anyway," she managed, tugging her jacket straight and straightening her shoulders, "you two wait here while I make a phone call." She turned for the door. "Oh and Agent Lee?" she said suddenly, stopping with her hand on the doorknob.

"What?" Dean asked innocently.

"If I get back and find out you've been going through anything in here, you _will_ spend the next few hours cuffed to the desk while Agent Peart and I make this house call if I can fix it up. Ok?" she smiled sweetly.

Dean's slightly angry face jumped the garden fence and found itself in sarcastic territory. Sam cringed on the inside, fearing the next remark from his brother.

"Well hey, sweetheart, if you want me in handcuffs all you have to do is ask," the elder Winchester winked slyly.

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head briskly, as if something were stuck in it and she couldn't make it disappear. She turned determinedly and opened the door. "Peart!" she called over her shoulder.

"Yes ma'am," Sam called back.

"Watch him!"

"Yes ma'am," he smiled. He looked at Dean. Dean raised a single eyebrow as the door shut firmly. He pinned Sam with a devil-may-care jaw-jut and put his hand out, lifting the corner of a file.

Sam tutted. "Stop that."

Dean flicked the corner up and down. Sam reached out and slapped his hand.

"Just don't, Dean," he warned him. "You've already pissed her off. Now we have to try and keep on her good side so she doesn't go checking our badge numbers."

"Hey, _you_ were the one who said she'd never arrest us," he pointed out defensively.

"Well you're not helping. Quit it," he snapped irritably.

Dean huffed and they looked at the door, waiting. It was silent for a whole minute. Then Dean's hand went out and flicked the corner open again. Sam slapped it down with force, catching his brother's hand painfully underneath. He hissed and drew it back.

"Dude?" Dean accused.

Sam just moved over and stood next to the pile, leaning his elbow on the files.

.

* * *

.

Sam flipped through the notes slowly, the small Maglight in his mouth providing ample light. He sniffed and re-read the last page, looking up at the dark view beyond the windscreen. He closed the loose-leafed collection of papers inside his notebook and took the torch from his mouth. He twisted it to cut the light and sighed, getting comfortable.

"Funny how James Harrison wouldn't see anyone until tomorrow," he mused out loud. "You'd think with all this going on he'd want to get it cleared up as soon as possible. Seeing as you found there _is_ no other coven here, so we could start legitimately start accusing members of his Thirteen now." He sniffed to himself, thinking it through. "You think the Chief will be out here too?" he asked his brother quietly, looking around the graveyard before zeroing back in on the headstone that marked Hannah Barrington's place of rest. There was no answer and he looked over at Dean.

He had long since fallen asleep, his head against the glass. The breaths from his slightly open mouth misted up the window in tiny sagas of wispy births and shockingly boring college lives that led to degrees in Misting and Obfuscating, before getting solid jobs in Fog or Coverage in high-profile companies. After forty seconds of hard work for said company, they retired with their wispy watches before dying dissipating deaths, out-breathed by the next generation.

Sam watched his brother for a moment, then shook his head and looked out of his passenger window. He shifted in the seat to be more comfortable, the Taurus handgun heavy in his corduroy jacket pocket. He took a deep breath, sighing it out and watching it make eerie shadows against the glass. He turned his head to make sure the grave was dead centre of his vision, the list of the Thirteen names Dean had goaded Frost into giving up that afternoon going round and round his head.

Something rapped on the glass and he jumped about six inches in his seat. His panicked hand slapped into Dean's arm automatically. Dean snorted in a sudden breath, twitching.

"Plain yoghurt--" he began. His eyes sprang open as Sam's fist thumped at him again. He looked over at him blearily. "Whut the--?"

He saw the face through Sam's window and relaxed his tensed frame, leaning his head back over the seat.

"Lady, you don't go round scaring people in the middle of a graveyard!" Dean called at the roof lining.

Sam wound his window down quickly. "Chief, what are you doing here?" he asked, pretending he hadn't nearly soiled himself in fright.

Frost leaned on the frame of the open window, shaking her head. She appeared to be dressed in a black t-shirt and a loose fleece, dark jeans barely visible in the pitch night.

"My first guess would be: the same thing you two boys are doing. Only I'm awake." She bent her neck more to look across at Dean. "Run out of coffee, Agent Lee?"

"Hours ago," he admitted, wiping his face.

"You do realise you're going to have to show me your warrant that allows you to park on private ground?"

"You do realise we don't need to show you anything - apart from maybe a warning 'cos you're impeding a federal investigation?" Sam replied rather coolly.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Right," she allowed, with a rather hefty chunk of doubt. "Look, if we're all waiting for Neal to come and try grave-robbing again, we may as well do it together."

"Ok, sure," Dean said brightly. "You wait in your car and we'll wait in mine, together in the knowledge we're all much more comfortable for having distance between us."

"Why, Agent Lee, you're starting to make me think you don't like me," she smiled impishly. She tapped the top of the car soundly before straightening. Sam and Dean exchanged an annoyed glance. "Oh, one thing," she said suddenly, bending down again and flashing her light into the Impala deliberately, "if and when Neal gets here, don't you get in my way again. I'd hate to have to shoot you."

"You took the words right outta my mouth," Dean smiled. It was not a nice smile, in that it only stretched sarcastic lips into an angry thin line. "You're good - my tongue didn't even feel it."

Sam lifted his closed fist and hammered it into the side of Dean's knee. He flinched but Frost just shook her head, snapping off her torch and turning away.

"Dude, why'd you have to get snarky like that?" Sam hissed.

"Why do we have to put up with her sticking her witchy nose in?"

"Dean, she's a Wiccan - or was. It's not like she was conjuring Lucifer or getting dark arts or strength from demons, is it? Probably the worst she'd ever done is try to cause rain in July!"

"I know," Dean grumped. "She just… There's something about her that damages my calm."

Sam snorted in mirth, then looked out of the open window to watch her getting into her BMW not thirty feet away. He looked back at Dean and did a double-take, reading the look on his face.

"Dude," Sam said decisively. Dean tore his gaze from the window and looked at him.

"What?"

"Dude," Sam sighed, shaking his head in pity.

"What!" he cried angrily.

"I can see _exactly_ how she damages your calm," he said slowly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean groused, looking out through the front windscreen to check the undisturbed grave.

"Oh come on," Sam scoffed. "You've got that '_wish I had x-ray vision_' look on your lechy face."

"Are you _insane_?" Dean protested, shifting in the seat to face more toward his side window. "She hates me! She's a police chief! _And_ she knows we're not real FBI agents--"

"--She does _not_--"

"--She does! _And_ it could be her!"

"You seriously think she's causing zombies to lop people's heads off with a shovel!"

"Maybe! And did you see the gun she's carrying?" he ploughed on.

"No, but I saw you checking out her ass!" he wedged in.

Dean's mouth opened to protest. It snapped shut. Momentarily. He sucked in a breath and started again: "I swear Sam, all this hunting and demonic crap has finally driven you off your nut!"

Sam began to gainsay him, then just huffed and closed his own mouth. He folded his arms resolutely, looking out the front window. It was quiet for a long, tense moment. Finally Sam's peripheral vision picked up Dean's eyes flicking to him and back to the windscreen.

Sam cleared his throat quietly. He kept his voice low, matter-of-fact. "But you were looking. Right?"

A whole minute ticked by, and Sam resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to get an answer one way or the other.

But Dean surprised him.

"I cannot tell a lie," the elder Winchester admitted in a small, clipped voice. "I was lookin'."

"Thought so."

"Be rude not to," he admitted with a slight shrug.

"I get it."

"She _has_ got a real nice--"

"Ok - that's enough," Sam snapped, pouting at the window.

"Ye-ah," Dean said quickly. "I can't believe we're talking about this."

"We're _not_," Sam pointed out curtly.

"Right." He folded his arms, looking out his side window and wishing he were still sleeping. Silence reigned until his head eventually swung back in Sam's general direction, his eyes on the radio. "So when he gets back here, we're leaving her behind, right?"

.

* * *

.

"So when he gets back here, we're leaving her behind, right?" Sam said quietly, watching his elder brother pack the duffle.

"Yeah," he sighed, pulling it shut.

"But I like her! She's our soup angel!" Sam protested in a small voice. Dean looked at him.

"I know. But Dad only went to get supplies while we got ready to go. She lives here, Sammy, she can't come with us," he said patiently.

"But why not? Who's gonna make us soup now?" he wailed, distraught. Dean huffed and put his hand out. Sam leapt off the bed and ran over, his distress prompting him to ignore the offered hand and fling himself into Dean's side, grabbing onto his t-shirt front and back. "Make her come with us!" he begged. "Pleeeeeease?"

"I'll ask her. Again," he said deliberately. "You ready to go?"

"Not without the soup angel," Sam pouted.

Dean put his hand on Sam's head, tousling his mousy brown mop fondly. "I said I'd ask her, right?"

The door opened behind them and Nara walked in. "Are you asking someone something?" she asked with a game smile.

Sam and Dean turned to looked at her. Sam hid his face in Dean's shirt, but Dean looked at her guiltily.

"Sam says… Well, Sammy wants me to ask you to come with us. Again," he added uncomfortably.

Nara smiled widely, crossing to the bed and sitting. Sam ran over and grabbed at her knee, trying to haul himself up. She snatched him up and sat him on her lap as Dean traipsed over more slowly.

"Dean, you know I'd love to come with you. But I have family here, and my friends. I'm sorry - I can't leave here right now," she said quietly.

"It's James, isn't it?" Dean accused. "He wants you to marry him, right?"

She stared at him, taken aback. "How do you know that?"

"I heard 'em talking at breakfast yesterday," he said shortly. "James is ok, but he ain't fun, Nara."

"James is a lot of things, to a lot of people," she said, amused. "Your dad likes him."

"Well you _can't_ marry him," Dean blustered, his face slightly red.

"Oh no? Why not?" she asked cautiously.

Dean walked up and slapped his hands over Sam's ears harshly. Sam shook his head and struggled, but Dean kept a good hold to block out his hearing.

"Cos when I'm eighteen I'll come back here and marry you," he said quickly.

Nara stared at him, shocked. "What?" she dared.

"I'm nearly nine, Nara. And James ain't fun - _I'm_ fun. And Sammy really likes you, and so does Dad. I really like you, even if you are a girl," he added. "And I want Sammy to have--" He bit his lip to stop himself as Sam finally managed to wrench Dean's hands from his ears.

"Dean, I… Well, I don't know what to say," she managed. "It's very sweet of you, and… well, I've never had someone… I mean…" She took a deep breath, watching his eyes reflect the fight for peace in his head. She straightened her shoulders and smiled affectionately. "You're right, Dean. You _are_ fun. _Serious_ fun. And I know that one day you're going to be your town's regular heart-breaker." Her smile died and she looked sad suddenly. "But yes, James asked me to marry him and I said yes. I'm sorry."

Dean sighed and looked at Sam. Sam turned round instinctively, searching out his face. He looked back up at Nara.

"Dean needs a hug," he whispered conspiratorially. Nara looked down at Sam suddenly, as if only just realising he were still there.

"Oh Sammy."

"Sam!" Dean corrected.

"Samuel!" little Sam burbled happily, starting to chuckle. "Hug now please."

"He does need a hug, doesn't he?" she commiserated.

"No," Dean said forcefully, going to the door and pulling it open hotly, "Dean doesn't need _any_thing from _any_one. Dean looks after _himself_."

He disappeared out into the corridor, Sam staring after him forlornly. "Whoops," he observed in a small voice. "Needs more than just one hug."

Nara looks down at the small boy, unable to control her sad smile at the worry and compassion on his tiny face.

"You know, Sammy-Sam-Samuel, you're absolutely right," she sighed.

.

* * *

.

Dean stomped down the corridor, dodging the people around him until he came to the front door. He grasped at the handle but something caught his arm.

"Hey," said a friendly voice. "Where you off to, Big Man?"

Dean shook himself free and looked up at the adult. "Put that hand on me again and I'll break it off!" he asserted.

James looked down at him, folding his arms. "Is that so?" he smiled.

"Yeah! Don't think I wouldn't!" Dean hurled. "It's your fault she ain't coming with us!"

"'She'?" James asked. "Are we talking about Nara?"

"Yeah!" Dean snapped. "Sam really likes her, he needs to be her friend, I can make it so she stays with him - but you're taking her away from us!"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," James allowed on a sigh, crouching down. Dean's fists balled but James just smiled slightly. "You're what, eight?"

"Nearly nine!"

"Ok, I'm sorry, nearly nine," he said quickly. "I'm nearly twenty-one. If you wanna go ten rounds then fine. But you know who's gonna win."

Dean pouted for a long minute. "You got a car though, right?"

"Yeah. And?"

"Let's just say I know where the gas tank is at. And I got me a _big_ bag of sugar with your name on it," Dean growled.

He turned and stomped off down the hallway, and it was all James could do to watch him go, unsure whether to be amused or concerned.

.

.


	8. Wham, Bam, Thank You, Sam

**EIGHT**

**Wham, Bam, Thank You, Sam**

.

.

Dean slammed the front door shut behind him with as much force as a nearly-nine year old could muster. He sat on the stone step, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, staring out at the road. He waited and waited, willing the throaty rumble of the Impala to brighten his day. But it didn't.

He huffed and looked down to his right, at the stone step on which he was sat. He put his hand out and picked up the small flint-like rock next to the step, drawing it round in concentric circles. As soon as he started, his hand and arm put more weight into it, until he had scored a bright white ring into the worn thoroughfare.

The door opened slowly behind him and he stopped quickly, dropping the stone to the path in a guilty manoeuvre that annoyed him.

Nara's boots appeared in the space next to him, and then she sat down. She put her hands round her knees, looking out at the pathway.

"I'll do you a deal," she said quietly, and he looked at her.

"What deal?"

"You come back here when you're eighteen. If I don't have James any more, if I'm not Mrs Harrison by then, I'll marry you. How's that?"

"It'll be too late by then," he mumbled.

Nara leaned closer, trying to hear. "Say that again? I didn't hear you."

Dean's little face appeared to find something on the inside of his head very unpleasant, but Nara waited until he was ready to come out with a reason for whatever it was.

_Sam'll be old already. He won't need her by then. He needs her now_. Dean took a deep breath, his face slowly unravelling into a normal expression of resignation. _I'm not telling her that. She's already done a tonne of stuff for us. Guess Sammy's just got me then._

Nara watched, but Dean was quiet for a long time. Eventually he turned and looked at her sideways.

"Deal," he nodded.

She grinned and put her arm round him, pulling him to lean on her. He smiled and let himself be pulled. He felt her kiss the top of his head firmly.

"But… No kissing," Dean grumped.

"None at all?" she teased.

"No. It's just nasty. And wet. And you never know if someone got cooties," he sniffed.

"Ok," she said brightly. She looked past him to the circle on the other side. She took her hand from the side of his arm, tracing it over the circle he had driven into the stone. "As long as this circle is here, you can come into this house whenever you want."

"Is that good?" he hazarded.

She laughed. "It is for us Thirteen. Not everyone gets a special VIP pass like this. But seeing as we're getting married in ten years' time, I think you're allowed," she teased. "And Sammy, too."

"Sam."

"Samuel," she grinned. "Sammy-Sam-Samuel. As long as he's with you."

"Well ok." He looked up at her. "You know, for a girl, you're really cool."

"Thanks, Dean. For a nearly-nine year old, you're really cool too," she giggled.

They heard a familiar guttural _chug-chug_ from the road and looked up.

"Dad's here," Dean said eagerly.

She looked down at him sadly, glad he couldn't see the disappointment on her face. "If he's been successful, it's might be time for you three to go."

"Yeah," Dean allowed, "time to go."

.

* * *

.

"Time to go," Sam said suddenly, snatching up the silver rod from the footwell.

"Go go go," Dean managed, grabbing his similar silver weapon and pushing the door open.

They leapt out and ran across the grass toward the figure poised over the grave. The long wooden shovel handle jerked up and then slammed down. The head bit into the turf. The boys skidded to a halt in the damp grass.

"Ok, hold it right there!" Sam shouted.

The figure whipped around, the shovel in its hands.

"Annette!" came a gasped voice from behind them. Sam and Dean's heads snapped round, so synchronised it appeared practised. They found Frost stood behind them, her gun trained on the lone gravedigger.

Dean turned at a noise and gasped. He jumped back as the shovel swept through the air where his midriff had been. Sam lunged forward with the rod. Annette Watts - or the shell of Annette Watts - was pushed over onto her back. Sam struggled to hold her down. Dean's boots appeared at the side of the snarling, sickeningly grey head. He threw himself to kneel opposite his brother. His hands grabbed for the flailing wrists. He held her down. Sam let go of her. He looked around for his silver rod. It was out of reach on the grass.

Frost's slender hand snaked through the cold green and latched onto it. She shoved it at Sam. He snatched it up and turned on the snapping, snarling undead woman. He positioned the rod over her heart. He took a good hold and dropped all his weight onto the rod.

It squelched and pushed right through. Dean shuffled back but kept his hold on her wrists warily. There was an audible thunk as the rod encountered the grass underneath Annette. Sam strained and heaved to keep her down. The struggling and grunting stopped. Annette flopped back into the grass. Dean got to his feet, his boots disappearing from Sam's small circle of vision.

Sam pushed himself up slowly, eyeing the still corpse cautiously.

"Annette."

It was a teary female whisper and Sam fell to his backside in the grass, not yet ready to turn his back on the recently undead to see from whom it had come.

"She's _dead_-dead now," Dean said quietly.

Sam blew out a sigh, watching the silver rod intently for signs of movement. When there weren't any for a whole minute he dared to get up, stepping back a safe distance. He looked around slowly, stopping as he caught sight of Frost staring down at the dead-undead form. She was biting her lip in desperation, he guessed in an effort not to cry. She took a step back, putting her left hand out without looking and encountering Dean's right shoulder just behind her. His eyes rolled around the grass before he stepped closer, putting his left arm across her to turn her shoulders around, to turn her away from the sight.

She closed her eyes and put her hands up, grabbing onto his raised arm as if to keep it round her. Then she turned swiftly, putting her arms round him and pushing her head into his shoulder, sealing her eyes and mouth closed.

Dean looked lost for a long second. Then he put one hand up to her back, patting with a slowness born of abject awkwardness.

"Come on. Let's get out of here," he said confidently.

She gave a barely perceptible nod and he looked over her shoulder at Sam. He gestured to the cars with his eyes. Sam nodded, turning away again to look at the corpse. He sighed, shaking his head and patting his pockets to make sure his gun had not been lost in the struggle. He found it and began to turn.

He heard a hiss and a grunt. He whipped around as Frost fell over onto the grass. Dean was dropping to the ground like a garbage bag full of discarded pumpkin pulp. He slammed into the grass as Sam looked into the face of Neal Perry, a small, dirty shovel in his hands.

Sam tore across the open ground. He snatched up the silver bar lying by Dean's fallen hand. He flipped it round and rammed it into Neal's chest.

He jerked and swung his arms. His fist struck Sam in the cheekbone. He was propelled to the grass. He scrabbled to his feet hastily. He heard grunts and struggling. He looked up and saw Frost grappling to keep hold of Neal. She hooked one foot behind his boots. She pushed with both hands on the rod. It sent him over onto the ground. She stamped a worn leather boot in his gut. She knelt down and pushed on the rod.

It began to slide through Neal. He growled and gripped her hair, her arms, anything on which he could get purchase. She cried out in fear and horror, pushing harder.

Sam hauled himself up and ran over. He fought with Neal's wrists to keep him still. He and Frost stared down at him as the undead being became weaker and weaker. He went limp and Sam grabbed Frost, pulling her back with him to a safe distance.

He watched him from his collapsed position in the grass, but Frost turned on her hands and knees, disappearing.

"Lee," she said quickly, and Sam turned in the moonlight to see her kneeling next to Dean.

She grasped his jacket and rolled him over with an effort, putting her fingers to his neck and checking for a pulse. She grabbed at his checked shirt and yanked him up, halfway to a sitting position.

"Lee! Can you hear me?" she demanded. Dean's head simply lolled back on his neck and she let him drop back to the grass. She slapped at his face with a harshness that made Sam want to smile ever so slightly.

Dean gasped and opened his eyes, rolling them round in confusion. Something tumbled out of his mouth and while Sam fully expected it to be either food or adult toys of questionable application, Frost bent closer to catch it.

"James," Dean gasped. "James and Nara--"

"What?" she pressed, unsure of his slurred outburst. "Lee, say that again." He simply looked around, as if not sure which way was up. She grasped his head and turned it to see her, looking at him carefully. "Lee, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, I can hear you," he slurred. "Congrata'lations on findin' a good reason to slap me."

She grinned, letting go of his head and pulling on his shirt to help him sit. He put his hands up to pry her off him but she held him fast by one hand.

_James Harrison - and Nara_, Dean heard bouncing around his head. _Nara… Nara… Long time since I've thought of that sorry mess_--

"Lee?" Frost's voice cut into his jumbled thoughts.

Dean blinked and his face screwed up in pain. "Question?" he managed.

"What?" she asked, putting a hand to his face and holding it still, looking him over carefully.

"Why was Annette tryin' to dig up Hannah? Who told her to do that? An' how'd she get here so quick? With her head back on?"

Frost's smile faded as she let go of his face smartly. "I have no idea." She watched him try to keep focus on her face, could see he was having trouble. "You ok to walk?"

"Darlin', I'm always ok to walk," he blustered. She snorted in amusement.

"Let's take a look at where he got you first, eh?" She put her left hand to the side of his head, pulling it round. "Looks nasty," she mused as Sam crossed the grass and crouched down. "You sure you'd know how many fingers I'd be holding up?"

"Probably one," Dean shrugged.

She looked at him with a sad smile. "I'm sorry," she said heavily.

"For what?" he squinted, the side of his head starting to smart.

"Twice now you've saved me from Maiming By Shovel. Thank you. And I'm sorry he whacked you in the head with his."

"Might knock some sense into him," Sam commented.

Dean flicked angry eyes up at him but Sam just smiled brightly. Dean put his hands to the grass and pushed at it, and she helped him to his feet. He wobbled slightly and she grasped his arm.

"Right. Peart, you take his car, follow us," she instructed.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked quickly.

"The hospital," she said firmly. "His head needs looking at, and I am not leaving you two to bumble around the place with 'shovel abuse' written all over him, especially after Annette's murder this afternoon. I can get you in and out without questions, and right now, I do not want to invent reasons to lie about why we were in a graveyard being attacked by cadavers."

"Fair enough," Sam smiled. "Don't let him toss his cookies in your car. He wouldn't consider it a bad thing."

"Oh. You want him in _his_ car then?"

"I'd rather babysit a small child," Sam said deliberately brightly, and she snorted in barely-concealed amusement.

"Ok then - go. Follow us. I take it we're leaving these two - er - corpses - here?"

"Ah… you go on. I'll get rid of them before I follow you."

"Do you know where the hospital is?" she asked, letting go of Dean's arm.

He put his hand to his head, hissing and cursing. She turned and grasped his wrist, pulling it from his bloodied scalp.

"Don't touch it," she tutted dismissively.

"We gotta get rid of these stiffs," Dean breathed, pulling his wrist free of her grip to press his palm to his head again.

"I _told_ you--" she began, yanking his hand off his head.

"Ow!"

"Oh don't be such a baby," she chided, making Sam smile. She turned and looked at the taller Winchester. "We'd better get rid of them first. I assume you know what to do with these bodies?"

Sam sighed, his smile slipping slowly. "Yeah," he admitted.

The three of them closed on the first dead undead, deciding which end to take each.

.

* * *

.

Frost brought the BMW to a stop in the hospital car park, away from the harsh floodlights, putting it into Park and killing the engine. She unclipped her seatbelt and looked over at Dean.

"Hey, Lee. We're here," she said. She frowned, finding him asleep, and leaned over to study his face. Her gaze ranged around the weary eyes, the careless stubble, the slightly open mouth, and she sighed wistfully. She leaned back to a safe distance. "Hey, Lee," she said loudly, nudging him deliberately.

"--handcuffs!" he blurted as his eyes crashed open.

She just blinked at him as he looked around, getting his bearings. He wiped a hand over his face before he squinted at her, his face clearing quickly.

"Oh. It's you," he managed. "I had this horrible nightmare I was trapped in a car with this police chief who hated me and wanted me out of her town," he said pointedly.

"And then you woke up and realised she didn't hate you, she just… didn't know if she should do with you what she wanted to do with you," she allowed quietly, with a private smile.

"See? Cos--." He shut his mouth and let his eyes dart to the ceiling of the BMW, letting his immediate memory replay her words in his head.

_Yes, there she is_, said the elderly projectionist, pointing to the memory of Frost talking. And then she repeated her possible innuendo and the projectionist paused the flickering memory film, looking at the single member of the audience and shrugging. _Either she wants you_, he hazarded, _or we got the wrong soundtrack hooked up to the wrong film again_. Dean's immediate memory thanked the man, got out of its cinema seat, and headed for the street for some direly needed clearer thinking. It lit a cigarette while it pondered carefully. Then it walked to the payphone by the box office and put in a collect call to the rest of Dean's brain, uttering just four words ("_Nah, I got nuthin_',") before hanging up. Dean's brain banged out a suitable response as quickly as possible, observing it had already been a whole three seconds since he had started his last sentence but broken down, Ford jalopy style, in the middle.

It was the best response his harried brain could come up with. It tumbled from his puzzled lips: "What?"

"I don't hate you, Agent Lee. It's just…" She sighed. "I have a job. A position. And…"

"And you don't want FBI comin' in here and messing it all up?"

She sighed quietly, letting herself lean toward him. "Exactly. I worked hard to get this position."

She looked at him as if fearing his next comment, but he just eyed her and her proximity for a long few seconds. "And it's a good one," he observed at last, with due caution and indecision.

"I've worked with the FBI before. They have sticks up their asses a mile long. They don't know anything about working with local law enforcement - especially when the chief's a woman," she went on, and he could have sworn she was a few inches closer.

"Well I can tell you now, I have no trouble at all working under a woman," he allowed with angelic innocence. "Sometimes I prefer it."

"Oh yeah?" she smiled wickedly.

"It can have its advantages," he nodded as he put his hands down to the seatbelt clip. He pushed at it but it refused to open. "Oh. Ah…" He scrabbled at it in vain. "Son of a--"

"It sticks sometimes," she said professionally.

She put her hand out, laying it on top of his. The warmth under her fingers made her pause. She appeared to swallow before she pushed at his hand, brushing it from the clip. She shoved her thumb into the eject button. The seatbelt jumped out obediently and landed in his lap. She raised her eyes to his slowly.

"It's all in the wrist," she said impishly. She picked up the belt and leaned across him to toss it at the housing in the door arch.

She paused, assessing his face from a few inches away. He just looked back at her, then his eyebrows raised and his smile came out to play, and he suddenly looked mischievous. She put her hand to his face slowly, sliding it over the skin.

"Do you have a first name?" she asked curiously.

"Well yeah," he nodded, as if it were obvious. They looked at each other in silence. _Nara_, a tiny voice whispered in his head. _Nara. How long has it been since you thought about her? And James Harrison… Fords… Harrison Ford? Or James Harrison had a Ford?_

"So what is it?" she asked eventually.

He blinked, aware he had lost grip on their connection by conversation several half-surfaced memories ago.

"What's what?"

"Your first name," she smiled.

"I'll tell you when I know you better," he managed. She grinned and shifted slightly, transferring her weight.

"You know something?" she sighed wistfully.

"Many things," he rumbled, making her smile knowingly.

He watched her fearless eyes stare back at him and appreciated the female force of will in a whole new way.

"About lotsa stuff that's not so important right now," he added.

The sound, the vibration, sent tiny shivers of excitement through her.

"If you hadn't just been whacked over the head with a gardening tool, and sitting there pretending it doesn't hurt, the next few minutes could have gone _very_ differently," she said apologetically. "As it is," she added, pulling his face round gently, "have this on account."

She leaned forward and he felt her lips pressing into his cheekbone, almost where it met his ear. They trailed down his skin slightly as they pulled away again, and he swallowed at the delightful tickling sensation.

"I'll remember you said that," he allowed with a slightly pointed eyebrow, and she grinned wickedly. "Never was one for running a tab, though."

She felt his hand in her hair, pulling her face closer to his. He reached out for her with his chin and she leaned on him heavily.

The adrenaline rush the smell of him triggered was nearly too much - but she dared to control her electric nervousness.

_Closer - closer - closer_, she willed, leaning into him. _Closer - closer - closer_ --

.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for ALL your reviews and comments, people - very much appreciated, and all taken to heart. Ta very much!**_


	9. Like A Hole In The Head

**NINE**

**Like A Hole In The Head**

.

"I'll remember you said that," Dean allowed with a slightly pointed eyebrow, and Frost grinned wickedly. "Never was one for running a tab, though."

She felt his hand in her hair, pulling her face closer to his. He reached out for her with his chin and she leaned on him heavily.

The adrenaline rush the smell of him triggered was nearly too much - but she dared to control her electric nervousness.

_Closer - closer - closer_, she willed, leaning into him. _Closer - closer - closer_ --

A pair of bright headlights cut through the rear windscreen suddenly, causing them both to wince and look round into them.

_Bloody hell!_ she protested.

Dean let his hand drop and Frost pulled herself away smartly as the Impala _chug-chug_ged her way up alongside the BMW. The lights dimmed and went out, the engine silenced soon after.

She heard Dean clear his throat but she turned and swung out of the car. She walked round to the other side and opened the door, perhaps a little harshly if anyone were counting. Dean put his hand on the roof and hauled himself out, finding himself steady on his feet. He looked across the roof and blinked at the front doors to the hospital.

Sam appeared out of the far side of the Impala.

"Do we have to do this?" Dean grumped.

"Yes," Sam called firmly. "Don't whine."

Frost hid a smile at Dean's expense, her amused eyes catching Sam's matching face. He sniffed and came round the car slowly, looking at them both.

"You sure you need to come in? I can take care of him," he said to Frost.

"Hey, I can do it," Dean protested.

"Well…" Frost havered, "if you're sure he can walk ok."

"He? He? I'm right here!" Dean pointed out.

"He'll be ok. He's had worse," Sam nodded. "Thanks, though. You've been really… uh… co-operative," he managed.

"Right," Frost said knowingly. "At long as I'm 'co-operative' and he gets some medical attention, everything will be fine, eh?"

Dean raised his right hand in a decidedly half-hearted gesture. "Still here," he sighed.

Frost turned to him suddenly, simply eyeing him. "Get in there and make sure they check your head."

"Alright! Just stop talking about me like I can't hear you!" Dean cried.

She grinned, her gaze on him for a long moment. Sam cleared his throat, looking out over the roof of the Impala, and she let her hand drop swiftly.

"Go," she advised.

"Yeah," Dean said hurriedly, turning away.

Sam stepped back to let him walk off toward the main doors. He looked back at Frost, nodded his thanks, and followed his elder brother across the dark car park.

They heard Frost open her car door and get back in, the engine starting. Sam looked over his shoulder as the champagne BMW pulled out of the car park.

"So," Sam said clearly, "_she's_ sweet on _you_," he teased.

_That ain't the problem_. "Dude, I know. I'm not an idiot," he snapped defensively.

"The suspected murderess," Sam added maliciously.

_Neither's tha__t_. "Shut up."

"The Wiccan Witch of the Watch who's picking coven members off one by one!"

_And that is about as far from the problem as it could get._ "Sam. Piehole: _shut - it_." They reached the main doors and Dean grabbed the handle.

"But this is a good thing - you can stop her from reporting us to the real Feds if she finds out we're not--" Sam began.

He was forced to stop abruptly as Dean slammed the door into his front to walk through. He grinned as he stepped around it and followed him into the reception of the hospital.

"It was the handcuffs line, right? Right?" he pressed maliciously as Dean walked toward the counter.

_Hardly. If you even remembered Nara, you'd have a problem too_. "Dude, one more crack, I dare you," he warned.

Sam bit his lip and was content to smile at the nice young nurse on the desk.

.

* * *

.

Three hours later and Sam was driving them back to the motel, one hand on the wheel, one on the window block. He had his hand up, sliding his fingers over his lip as he thought about the night and everything that had happened so far.

"So… Annette was decapitated, and then she springs up not six hours later, bashing you over the head with a spade," he muttered. There was no answer from the passenger side and Sam looked over. "Dean."

"What?" he asked quickly, turning from his inspection of the roadside through his window.

"Are you listening?"

"Always," he blustered. He paused, thought about it, and frowned to himself. "What were you talking about?"

"Annette having no head. And then getting it back again," he said clearly.

"Oh. Yeah." Dean sniffed and looked back out of the window. It was silent, save the rumble of the Impala and the occasional squeak. Sam looked over at his brother, then back to the road. He waited.

"And?" he pressed.

"And what?" Dean asked, his gaze still on the window.

"And what do you think is going on here?" he demanded.

Dean turned his head and looked at him. "Calm down, Sammy. I'm thinking," he said reasonably.

"About what? The case? Or Chief Frost?"

"Sam," Dean tutted.

"It's the Chief, isn't it?" Sam fumed. "God. Can't you keep your pants zipped up for one case?"

"Woah woah woah - who flattened the battery in _your_ laptop?" Dean protested defensively, glaring at him.

"Look, we're supposed to be finding out who's causing these zombies to kill people, and we haven't even got a way to connect all the victims yet."

"The coven is a good place to--"

"Neal wasn't even _in_ the coven!" Sam reminded him. "And Annette was new, only in cos Hannah died! Not exactly a contender for someone with a long history of grudges against her, is she?"

Dean looked back out of the window. "Just let me sleep on it," he offered quietly. "Ma head hurts."

Sam looked at him, his eyes running over the small white patch in Dean's hair, currently covering the damage caused by a large spade, and then his eyes darted back to the windscreen. He sighed, letting his anger slip slightly.

"What is there to think about?" he allowed with a definite air of dejection, the lack of leads jumping up and waving for his attention a second time.

Dean didn't answer, but when Sam glanced at his big brother, he saw very clearly that he had already slipped back into the strange haze, causing consternation and concentration to crease his older features.

Sam shook his head and drove on.

.

* * *

.

Frost rapped on the door loudly, chewing her lip. She waited impatiently, pretending she was adjusting her jacket because it was habit.

The motel door opened and Sam looked out in his shirt and trousers. "Oh!" he managed. "Er… hey, Chief. It's… early."

"It's nine thirty, Agent Peart," she pointed out, pushing past him and into the room.

"You might wanna wait--" Sam began.

Frost stopped dead. Her eyes refused to bend to her will and close. Or even blink. Dean was standing in just his black suit trousers, bending over the bed to reach the white shirt on it. He turned at Sam's voice, finding the police chief stood watching him with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Chief," he nodded, snapping the shirt out efficiently and pulling it on one arm.

Sam closed the door and went in his bare feet to the far bed, plonking himself down and finding his socks.

"Ah… I just came to find out why you weren't already at the station," she said smartly. "We did agree to see James at ten."

"Is it ten yet?" Dean pointed out, pulling on the other shirt sleeve.

"No. But it's a twenty-minute drive to his place."

"Wow. Well I'm sure we'll be there on time," Dean sniffed, buttoning the shirt.

"James doesn't like to wait," she commented, folding her arms.

"Well James can bite me," Dean said politely, doing up the buttons on the shirt cuffs. She raised an eyebrow at him, a lip jutting out in unamused disapproval, and Sam looked up from his newly-dressed feet.

"We'll be ready, Chief," he reassured her. "You want to wait here, or in the car?"

"Do you have any coffee?" she asked, her unimpressed gaze still on Dean as he looked around for his duffle, and by extension, socks.

"Nope," Dean announced. "Made a jug but we drank it."

"Then I'll be outside," she said to Sam, nodding slightly. She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

"Woah," Sam snorted, getting to his feet and straightening his tie.

Dean unbuttoned the top of his trousers and started pushing his shirt tails inside. "What?"

"_She'_s a different person in the morning," he observed.

"So am I. It's probably a coffee thing," Dean muttered, buttoning himself up again and finding his socks on the bed.

"I'm sure," Sam smiled, turning for his jacket and slipping it on.

.

* * *

.

She stopped the BMW right outside the house, and it seemed to the Winchester boys that she paused, staring at the house for a long moment.

"Ready?" Sam asked, already climbing out of the back seat.

"Of course," she said quickly, opening her door and getting out. She closed the door slowly, waiting for Dean to vacate the car before locking it up. She turned back to the house, and there was something resolute in her walk as she led them up the stoney path.

Sam and Dean fell into step behind her, taking in the very pristine front of the house and the perfectly manicured lawn. They stopped as she stepped up to the door, ringing the bell. There was nothing but birds and far away traffic until the door clicked and opened.

"Yes?" a man asked. Tall and lean, with a wiry look of caution about him, he stood in the doorway with his dark hair and eyes. He, too, looked perfectly groomed.

"James," she said warmly.

"Jo! Of course - ten o'clock, right?" he smiled. She nodded and he stood back from the door, waving a hand for her to come in. "And these are your FBI friends?"

"You're half right: they're FBI," she said with a broad smile as she passed him to go into the house.

James looked back at the two Winchesters, politely waiting for an invitation. "Well come on in, then," he said pleasantly. "Jo's bark is worse than her bite," he added conspiratorially, then turned to see where Frost had gone. Sam nudged his brother maliciously, but Dean appeared to be staring aimlessly at the spot which had until recently sported James' head.

Sam nudged him again, slightly worried. Dean jumped slightly and stepped in through the door. Sam followed and they walked in, following Frost into the front room of a plush, comfortable home. She swung her arms, banging her fists together, looking around in a large, slow circle. Sam watched her surreptitiously as Dean and James entered the room too.

"So then. You said this was about Hannah and Annette?" James said, closing the door to the front room and gesturing them to sit.

Frost went to the single chair, sitting in it but sliding forward to perch on the edge. She put her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped together.

"Yes," she said clearly. "And that's _all_ it's about."

"Ok," James allowed, waving to the sofa. Sam and Dean parked themselves on the large piece of furniture, still taking in the room.

"These two gentlemen think perhaps someone is targeting the Thirteen," she said quietly.

"Really?" James asked, looking over at Sam. "And why's that?"

"Hannah was the first victim," Sam said carefully, noticing Frost's worried glance at the door. "And then Annette. We think someone might be working their way down the list of members."

"Right. Do you _have_ a list of members?" James inquired politely, but there was an element of bemused dislike hiding just underneath the surface.

"We do. Chief Frost was good enough to supply us with it," Sam nodded.

"Then I don't really see what help I can be, gentlemen."

"What? Someone's killing your coven off one by one and you don't see what help you can be?" Dean protested.

"Oh, so now we're a _coven_, are we?" James asked, amused. "Quaint. And why would someone be after us?"

"You're supposed to be telling us that," Sam allowed.

"Do I get an FBI badge and some danger money if I do?"

"James," Frost snapped, and he looked at her. "Don't be an ass. Are you going to help me-- _us_ or not?"

"I said I always would."

Sam noticed the guarded look of annoyance Frost sent him, and then Dean cleared his throat suddenly.

"You can answer me a question that's been nagging at me all morning," he said politely.

"And what's that? What a pants press is for?" James asked with a wide, unctuous smile.

Dean's right eyebrow took it upon itself to arch, giving off the same aura of danger as a coiled snake.

"No, see… Well, this is Agent Peart's department really, he knows about these pagan things," he said deliberately slowly, "but I was just wondering how a Wiccan Thirteen has a man as their priestess. Y'know, the big girl in charge."

There was a long, awkward silence.

"I took the job on after my mother passed away," James said stiffly.

"Really," Dean oiled, nodding understandingly. "No other girls could do the job, huh?"

James looked at Frost suddenly, his face blank. "Apparently not."

Frost let her gaze wander sideways across the room, as if she had suddenly realised that the front windows held the secrets of the universe. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, just as the sound of the front door opening and closing jumped for their attention.

James looked to the door. "Oh. That was unexpected."

The door opened suddenly and a woman walked in. She was shorter than Frost by a head, her long brown hair twisted back in a safe bun, her face wearing the kind of expression Sam had seen many times on his father after he'd found his young boys covered in mud, playing on the Impala's rear seat.

"James?" she asked, her voice sharp. "Who are these--." Her voice stopped dead as she caught sight of Frost. "What's _she_ doing here?"

"Not now, not here," James sighed. "Kitchen?"

"I should think so," she snapped. James looked back at Frost, then to the other woman. He walked out, ushering her with him. Frost got to her feet, looking at the boys apologetically.

"Give us a minute," she said quietly. Sam nodded politely, but Dean looked preoccupied.

Frost walked out and shut the door, leaving the fake FBI agents to the front room. Sam looked at his brother.

"What's with that face?" he asked.

"What?" Dean blurted, looking at him.

"What did you see that I didn't?" Sam pressed.

Dean looked over at the door, then around the room slowly. "I've just got this weird feeling…"

"Like too-many-shots weird, or she's-rattling-under-the-hood-again weird?" Sam asked quickly.

"Like… I-think-I-know-that-guy weird," Dean admitted.

"James Harrison?" Sam prompted. "How?"

"I've met him before," he muttered, his face twisted in deep thought. "And something tells me he's always been a dick."

"No argument there," Sam snorted. He got up, looking around the room, and they heard raised voices in the kitchen. They exchanged a glance and then Sam put his hands in his pockets. "Y'know, I think it's possible Mrs Harrison doesn't like Chief Frost," he mused.

"Maybe Chief Frost was playing away with Mr Harrison, and Mrs Harrison found out," Dean offered.

"Chief _Jo_ doesn't seem the type," Sam put in, turning to look at the photographs on the top of the mantle piece. "Hey, look at this. Annette and Cole Watts with James and his wife at some barbecue, last year."

"Fascinating. Does James have 'future murderer' stamped on his forehead?" Dean asked, getting to his feet.

"Not that I can see. Maybe it's in invisible ink," he smiled.

"Maybe." Dean looked around the room as they again heard insults being shrieked at someone in the kitchen. Dean huffed. "Right." He strode over to the door, his hand on the knob before Sam noticed.

"Woah Dean - where are you going?"

"To be Dad," he grumped, opening the door quickly. He walked out and Sam closed his eyes, listening for the fall-out.

Dean walked round the doorjamb and went left, following the sound of voices. He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, looking round at them.

"You Nevada lot have some pretty weird customs!" he called harshly. "Are we doing this murder investigation, or are we just gonna scream and throw plates at each other till someone _else_ is dead?"

Frost opened her mouth but it was the wife who answered.

"Who the hell are you to come in our house and--"

"FBI?" Dean interrupted. "Mean anythin' to you, lady? Now I swear, if _someone_ don't start giving us information on the dead people the Chief's got mounting up in her morgue, I'm gonna start bookin' and interrogatin' till something shakes loose. Do you get me, sweetheart?" he demanded.

Mrs Harrison opened her mouth. Dean raised his chin high and his head tilted to the side, daring her to continue. She closed it again quickly.

Dean's head sank down again in vindication. "Thought so. Chief? A minute?" he asked politely, but there was something else in there too.

"Of course, Agent Lee," she allowed, pushing past them. Dean turned to go.

"It's ok, Nara. We'll sort all this out," James said quietly.

Dean stopped dead in alarm. He turned quickly, bumping into Frost. "What'd you say?" he gasped.

"Nothing important," James shrugged. "Why?"

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then looked at the wife. He blinked long lashes at her, turning it over in his head.

"Nara?" he dared. "_Nara?_"

"What of it?" she snapped resentfully.

Dean stared for a long moment, looking her up and down. Frost pushed on his arm quickly, looking back at James.

"I'm sorry. We'll go," Frost said curtly. "If you need to pass on any information, just call me."

"He'll do no such thing!" she protested.

"Then call the station!" Dean called over her attempt to start grumbling.

Frost pushed at his arm and then used both hands to force him out of the doorway. He stumbled but caught his footing, letting her push him on down the corridor.

"Peart! We are leaving!" she called as they passed the door to the front room.

Sam walked out and followed them, turning to pull the front door shut behind them, an apologetic smile on his face.

.

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* * *

_**A huge THANK YOU! to everyone and anyone who's left a comment thus far. Ta very much - every one is very much appreciated!**_


	10. Heading For Trouble

_**Author's Note:**_

_Contains several uses of the F word. My apologies in advance._

_._

_

* * *

_

_._

**TEN**

**Heading For Trouble**

.

.

Frost, Sam and Dean made it out of the house and down the path to her BMW.

She fished in her jacket pocket for the keys, putting a hand out and grabbing Dean's jacket sleeve. She wrenched on it to pull him round, slapping the keys into his chest.

He appeared dazed, his attention clearly over the hills and far away, but she held the keys against his shirt and tie until he put his hand up to take them.

He blinked down at them, then at her. "What?"

"Drive!" she cried angrily.

Dean jumped and walked round the driver's side, unlocking the car and sparing Sam a worried glance. He opened the driver's door as Sam pulled his rear door open, sliding in. Dean slid into the driver's seat, pulling the seat back slightly to allow room for his taller frame.

Frost pushed herself into the passenger seat and slammed her door, jamming her elbow into the window block painfully loudly.

"Station!" she demanded.

"Yes ma'am," Dean breathed worriedly, looking around for the ignition barrel. He found it and slid the key in, ignoring her stormy breathing and the slight cloud of anger that hung over her as he checked the mirrors and pulled out into the road.

It was quiet for a few minutes, and Dean looked in the rear view mirror to see Sam watching the chief with worry stamped on his face. Dean looked back at the road until she sat up suddenly.

"Wait - there's a Starbuck's," she said quickly. "We need coffee."

"The last thing you need is caffeine," Dean observed.

Her left hand came out and pushed lightly at his shoulder. "Coffee."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Dean managed, negotiating the traffic to get them into the car park. He drifted the car into a parking space by the window, but Frost tutted.

"Not here. Away from the public," she snapped.

Dean muttered something near silently, his eyes darting to Sam's in the mirror before reversing the car out and following the side lane to the large car park behind the building. He drove over to the far hedge and paused, the engine still running.

"This do it for you?"

"Yes," she said, sounding a tad more relaxed. She opened her door and got out quickly. Dean cut the engine and got out, hearing Sam's rear door go too. "Agent Peart?" she said, her voice suddenly and smoothly polite.

"Yes."

"Could you please do me a favour and get me a tall regular coffee?" she asked reasonably. "No milky shit, no frothy crap, no sprinkly whatevers, just plain coffee?"

"Done," he said, already turning to walk across the lot to the building.

"And one for me," Dean added.

Sam waved a hand over his shoulder and kept walking. Frost watched him go, then turned and kicked viciously at the grassy verge by the tyre, hissing something that sounded suspiciously like a naughty word. Or two.

"You and her don't get on, huh?" Dean ventured from across the bonnet.

"No! No we don't! Cos she's a fucking pain in the ass who bitches about every single fucking thing her husband does that isn't up to her _fucking standards!_" she cried irritably.

Dean took a step back and put his hands up quickly. "Woah. Sounds like--"

"James is my ex-boyfriend. My _ex_," she stressed. "It was all over ten years ago - but can she accept it? Can she fuck! So every time I have to ask him anything during routine police business or when I had to go to meets or any general Wiccan stuff where I needed his input _as my elder_ she's got to stick her fucking annoying nose in and cause a fucking stink!"

Dean bit his lower lip and stayed judiciously silent.

"She goes on and on about fucking loyalty and how we're all a bunch of witches and how she's so much better than all of us when in fact she's a complete fuck-up and James only went back to her cos _I left him!_" she shouted.

She blew out a huge huff, folding her arms and staring at the ground. It was silent for a long moment.

"You want me to go back there and shoot her?" Dean offered quietly.

"_Yes!_" she raged. Then she looked up at him and his thumb pointing back over his shoulder. She snorted in amusement, letting it turn into a loud laugh instead. "No!"

She turned and leaned back on her car, putting her hands out to the paintwork and looking up at the sky, laughing still.

"Oh, Lee," she sighed with leftover amusement, "how simple the world would be if you could."

"I've often felt that way," he grunted.

"I'll bet you have," she sighed. She sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a long moment. She heard feet in the gravel and let it out, looking down to find Dean walking round the car. He stopped two feet from her, hands in his trouser pockets, leaning on the side of the car too. "I'm sorry," she said clearly.

"For what?" he dared.

"For swearing like a sailor. I went to university - _college_ - overseas. England."

"That explains a few things," Dean smiled, looking around the car park. "So where do we go from here? Neal wasn't in the Thirteen, and James don't seem too bothered about helping us out with this little zombie problem we got going on."

"Yeah. Think we'll have to do it ourselves," she admitted. She paused for a moment, looking at her scuffed black boots. "You always this gung-ho for beating something till the answer falls out?" she asked lightly.

"What?"

"Cole Watts, James and his wife - not exactly Mr Patient, are you?" she asked, looking up at him again.

He ran a tongue over his lower lip slowly, looking around the car park. "Just don't see what waiting ever did for me, that's all," he admitted. "I did it once. For a whole year. Cos I had to."

"And how did that work out?"

"Badly," he admitted.

She pushed herself up off the car, walking toward him. She stopped a foot away. "You know, I'm still trying to think who you look like," she said quietly.

"Maybe someone on TV. I got one of those faces," he smirked.

"Maybe," she acceded. "Maybe it's _you_. You haven't been here before, have you, Lee?"

"Actually, yeah," he said. He looked at his feet, causing his head to miss hers by inches. "And I think maybe I know that Mrs Harrison - _before_ she was Mrs Harrison."

"Really? I pity you," she said scathingly. He looked up and she frowned suddenly. "Wait - _how_ do you know her?"

"Like I said, I been here before - a long time ago," he admitted. "And that name's…" _That name's the one that got away from Sammy, the one that should have come with us and watched him grow up for me_. He cleared his throat abruptly. "James looks familiar, too."

"Yeah well. James is a great guy - but he's a little…"

"Controlling?" Dean offered. "Seems a little anal about appearances, if you ask me."

"And you'd be right," she smiled. "You're a pretty good judge of character sometimes, Mr Lee."

"Not really, Chief Frost--"

"Jo."

"Jo. I thought you were a mean, pain in the ass police chief, some nasty woman who only cared about doing the job - and who hated me," he admitted.

She smiled, putting a hand to the lapel of his suit jacket, lifting it slightly to slide her fingers over the back of the material. "And now?" She pulled on the lapel, making him stop leaning on the car and stand straight, closer to her.

"Well, you got a sense of humour, too," he teased with a smile.

She grinned into his eyes, watching them study her with dark green curiosity. "So… what do we do now?"

He opened his mouth, thought about it, and then folded his bottom lip between his teeth, watching her with a slight smile. She raised an eyebrow as his lip slowly freed itself from his grip and he began to lean toward her.

But he caught movement from the corner of his eye and straightened unconsciously, clearing his throat. She let go of his lapel quickly.

"Now we drink the coffee my partner's bringin' over and think about the list of the eleven people left from your Thirteen," he said professionally.

"Good thinking," she nodded. "Oh, one thing?" she added, as Sam approached warily.

"What's that?" Dean asked, turning for the coffee. He caught Sam's worried gaze and shook his head slightly. Sam's face cleared as he handed Frost her coffee.

"You could tell me all you know about zombies." She pulled the lid from the coffee and breathed in the fumes gratefully. "I get the feeling that's the root of the problem."

.

* * *

.

"I get the feeling that's the root of the problem," Nara said calmly, taking the rucksack from John and letting it drop to the floor. "Right there."

She put her hand out and stopped his shoulder from moving. The shirt under her hand was full of blood and she tutted.

"Where are the boys?" he grunted painfully.

"They're getting ready for bed. I gave them an extra cookie each if they were good - well, Dean got the extra cookie. Sam was a little huffy about you not being here before they got sent to bed," she shrugged.

John smiled slightly "I'll go look in on them."

"The hell you will, dripping blood on the floor," she tutted, gripping his good arm and pulling him back. "Just sit down and I'll fix you up. _Then_ you can go see them."

John let himself be pulled and sat slowly, nodding to himself.

"You're right. I need this patched before they wake. They can't see me like this," he breathed.

She folded her young arms, watching him stand and pull off the checked shirt, revealing a dark green US Marines t-shirt half covered in blood.

"Tough night?" she inquired, one eyebrow raised.

"Helluva fight," John admitted. "We got zombie problems alright - and it's weird, they ain't like normal zombies," he added.

"There's such a thing as a normal zombie?" she prompted, taking the shirt from him and throwing it to the corner of the room.

"Well no. But these are weird - they've been brought back on purpose, and not by anyone they know," he allowed.

"How do you know that?"

"I know a bit about zombies. And these are around for one thing, and one thing only - to kill people. They're not motivated by something that happened to them when they were alive, it's sheerly for murder."

"That's not good," she said, putting her hands to his back and forcing him to sit down. "Look, sit still. I'll patch you up, that's my role around here. By the time I'm done with you, the boys will never know you've been hurt."

"Nara, you're an angel," he breathed.

"Not quite, but I'm working on it," she smiled. "Give me a few years."

.

* * *

.

John sat forwards and picked up his pen, thinking for a long moment.

'_These zombies are under orders to kill, nothing more_,' he wrote fluidly. '_Just got to find the person who cursed them in the first place, find out why they're trying to lop people's heads off, and why they're having to dig them up. Then I can undo all this and everyone dead round here will stay dead_.'

He heard a door open behind him and put his free hand out smoothly, closing the journal quickly but silently.

"Dad?" came a small voice.

"Hey champ - how you doing?" he asked, pasting on a wide smile and turning to find Dean walking up to his chair, a large sandwich in his hands.

"Ok. Sammy don't like the soup, but I foxed him into eatin' it," he said proudly.

"That's my boy," John grinned. He moved over on the large chair, patting it deliberately. Dean grinned and jumped on, leaning on his father.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked, looking down at the big brown leather book.

"Just writing," he said airily.

"Writin' what?" Dean asked, taking a huge bite of what was left of the sandwich.

"Things. Things I need to remember," he admitted. "Sometimes I forget stuff; it's good to write down information. You never know when you might need it again."

"Really?"

"Really. One day you might look in this and read all about those grey men you asked me about."

"You said they was zombies," Dean pointed out, his mouth full. "And not the Romero kind."

"That's right," John admitted, lifting his hand and tousling his son's hair. "So anyway, you been nice to Nara while I was out today?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "But… We leaving soon?"

"Not just yet. I have a curse to break," he said, then stopped himself, biting his tongue.

"Do zombies always come cos of curses?" Dean asked quickly, pausing in his demolition of the food in his hands.

"No. Yes. No. Sometimes," John allowed.

"Oh." He bit into the bread and peanut butter as if he hadn't eaten in days, and John smiled as he looked down at him. Then he thought for a long moment.

"Dean," he said quietly.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up at him with large eyes and a full mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster with a peanut butter addiction. John put a hand on his shoulder.

"I been thinkin' about this over and over, and I can't make it right in my head. Would you do something for me?"

Dean struggled to chew and swallow more than half of the food currently trapped in his mouth. "I ain't making dinner for Sammy. Not again. He threw it at the curtain last time cos--"

"No, Dean. Not making food." He paused, weighing things up. "It's like this - I need to work out who's cursed these zombies. Someone's making 'em come back."

Dean bit his lip in trepidation. "If… if you want me to come with you and fight 'em… I want a real big stick," he stated fearfully. John laughed suddenly, and Dean's fear turned to indignation.

"No, I don't want you anywhere near them. Ever," he said, lifting his hand and checking the line of stitches in his son's hairline. "No. What I want is for you to look at the people involved and just tell me who you think it is."

"Seriously?" Dean gasped. "You want me to break the case?"

John blinked at him. "What?"

"Like '_Dragnet_'? Sweet!" Dean grinned. He shoved the last of the sandwich in his mouth, clapping his hands together and rubbing. "Where are the perps?" he demanded eagerly from the emptier side of his mouth.

John chuckled and shook his head, going to the journal and paging through it. He opened it up.

"Right. So we got Peter Barrington and Susan Watts - both dead."

"Zombie'd to death?"

"Heads lopped off, yeah," John allowed, slightly disturbed by the way Dean pored over the gory sketches with such concentration on the bloody details. "They were married. Then Susan's brother, Parker Watts, died too."

"And they're all like, the same age?" Dean asked.

"Yup," John confirmed. He put his hand out and tapped the family tree on the page. Dean leaned over and sniffed, scrutinising the writing and pictures.

John got up, careful not to dislodge him from the seat, and went over to his duffle in the corner. It was quiet for a long moment.

_Why am I doing this? Why am I letting my eight-year-old tell me what's wrong with this picture?_ John asked himself sourly. _Cos I can't ask anyone else? Cos no-one else would believe or take me seriously?_ He turned and looked over at Dean, who was staring at all the facts on the paper with a voracious need to impress his father.

"Says here the first stiff was called Amy. She was the first wife of…" Dean squinted. "The first wife of that Daniel Watts police guy."

"And?" John asked, interested.

"Well if this first wife died, and then Officer Watts married this second girl, Caitlin, was it this second girl that killed Amy? To get married? --Must be a girl thing."

John's jaw dropped open. "Say that again," he dared.

Dean looked at him with apprehension. "I was just--"

"No, son, say that again," John demanded, walking over and looking down at the book. "You think Officer Watts' first wife was _murdered_?"

"Well he married the other girl pretty soon after," Dean shrugged. "There was this black and white film on last night - pretty neat cos it was real scary - and this guy marries the nurse cos she was lookin' after the sick wife the whole time, but it was the nurse that killed her so she could marry him and get his money--"

"Dean," he said suddenly, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder so hard it made him jump. "You might have just solved the case of the cursed zombies."

"Really? Cool!" he gushed. Then his face fell. "So I gotta come with you, right?" he added with worry.

"To break the curse and kill the last few?" John smiled.

"Yeah, cos like… I mean, if you want me there, I'll be there. You know that," he shrugged in such an off-hand way it made John smile in bemusement - and perhaps just a little pride. "It's just - well, like I said, there has to be a big-ass stick involved, and I'd kinda like one with a nail in the end--"

"Ok, first off, we're gonna sit down and talk about you using words like 'big-ass'," John interrupted. "And second, I need you to do something far more difficult and dangerous than chase after zombies."

"What is it?" Dean dared, his little eyes wide.

.

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* * *

**_Thank you, everyone, for your reviews and comments, no matter how short or long they may be. They all mean a lot to me. :)_**


	11. A Head For Figures

**ELEVEN**

**A Head For Figures**

.

.

"I need you to do something far more difficult and dangerous than chase after zombies," John asserted.

"What is it?" Dean dared, his little eyes wide.

"Stay here and look after Sammy. The difficult bit is never telling him what I've been doing here, alright? As far as he knows, I'm selling stuff to people. You get me?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Just… selling stuff?"

"Selling stuff," John nodded.

Dean turned on the chair, watching his father go back to his duffle and zip it up.

"So… when you get back, does that mean the zombies are all dead?"

"Yup," John said decisively.

"And you're gonna be ok, right?"

"Dean," he said slowly, turning to look at him. "Of course I'll be ok. Me against a bunch of dead people? Come on," he scoffed.

Dean eyed him, wondering why he didn't sound quite as confident as he had expected him to. He let his tongue wipe over his bottom lip thoughtfully, watching his father pick up his jacket and pull it on.

"Ok," he offered.

John picked up his duffle and walked over, putting his hand out to Dean's head and smoothing his hair back over his head. "Just watch out for Sammy, ok?"

"Always," he chirped.

"Good boy. I'll be back. Then we can go get some pizza. And ice-cream," he added with a smile.

"Ok," Dean smiled. John looked at him for a long moment. He took his hand off his head, but Dean didn't stop looking at him.

John sighed and dropped his duffle to the floor, turning and putting his arms out. Dean grabbed hold of him and squeezed his arms round him tightly.

"I'll be right back," John breathed, feeling the little boy's heart racing against his shirt.

"I know," he said lightly. John pulled him off and winked at him, turning and walking out of the door.

Dean sat back in the chair, watching the door for a long minute.

He waited until his father was definitely well out of earshot.

_Then_ he tutted.

"Friggin' zombies."

.

* * *

.

"Friggin' zombies," Dean tutted, bending over the desk and peering over the post-mortem. There was a knock at the door and it swung open.

"Oh," said a woman's voice, and Dean turned to find Mrs Harrison looking at him from the doorway. "You're not the Chief."

"No I am not," he said firmly. He let his hands sink into his trouser pockets. "Think we've met before though," he added quietly.

"Oh, I don't think we have," she scoffed, walking in and opening the clutch bag over her arm. "I would have remembered such a rude man."

"I was younger then," he allowed sadly. "We both were. You hadn't married James yet."

She pulled a folded over piece of paper from her bag, flapping it to open it out. "Well I'd like to say I'm sorry for not knowing what you're talking about, but I really couldn't care," she snapped, thrusting the paper at him.

"Wow, what happened to you?" he accused darkly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

He took the paper, in no hurry, but ignored it to study her face. "You used to be the nicest girl," he stated. "How did you turn into this bitch of a housewife? What did it, the marriage?" he hazarded with a boatload of cynicism. "The Wiccan stuff?"

She huffed at him and turned away quickly. He screwed his eyes and face up in abrupt self-kickery. He opened his eyes again quickly as he heard her swinging the door open.

"Nara?" he called quickly.

She stopped dead and turned to look at him. "Don't you _ever_ mention that name to me again," she spat. Then she was out of the door and gone.

Dean pulled in a deep breath and pushed it all out with regret. The door opened again as Sam walked in, carrying two tall cups. He noticed the heart-broken look on his brother's face and did a double-take, but only caught a hurriedly constructed wall of detached disappointment this time. Sam looked back at the door behind him.

"Was that Mrs Harrison?" he dared, apprehension twisting his smooth features into a confused eyebrow raise.

"Yeah," Dean sighed.

Chief Frost came through the door, a taut scowl on her face. She walked up to her desk by Dean, apparently oblivious of both Dean's disappointment and Sam's curiosity.

"Bitch," she bit out, and both brothers looked at her. She looked up, pulling the lid off her coffee cup. She noticed a strange tinge to the atmosphere and paused. "What?"

Sam looked at Dean meaningfully. "What's up with you? You look like someone's snapped your Metallica tape."

Dean opened his mouth, then turned away again. "Nuthin'," he groused. "Just… All angels turn into demons sooner or later."

Sam frowned at his brother, disturbed by the cryptic response. Frost just looked up at Dean with a small smile.

"Talking of demons, have we worked out why these zombies are targeting our little coven?"

"No," Dean conceded. Then he remembered the paper in his hand and lifted it. "Here," he added, as if he really didn't care.

Frost took the paper from him.

"Mrs Harrison just brought it in," he said tonelessly. "Guess she couldn't trust her husband in the same building as the police chief without her watching."

Frost looked it over slowly, frowning. "This is their new telephone number and for some bizarre reason, their last itemised bill showing who they've called," she said slowly.

"Great," Dean allowed, sounding a couple of hundred miles south of his actual position.

Frost raised her eyes from the paper to his. "Ok, what is it?" she demanded shortly.

"What?"

"Peart's right," she pointed out. "Last time I saw a face like that it was on the fish I'd brought home to make soup with."

Dean stared at her as if he had been slapped. The stare went on for a few seconds longer than made Sam comfortable. Frost opened her mouth, confused, but Dean shook his head.

"God_damn_," he breathed angrily, running pointed fingers over his forehead and walking round her unhurriedly. One hand fell into his pocket as he simply walked out of the door. It closed behind him neatly with a tiny click.

Frost looked at Sam, alarmed. "What did I say?"

"I have absolutely no idea," he said earnestly. "He's been weird since we saw James." He paused. "He said he thought he knew him."

"He told _me_ he knew the missus," she snorted. "Wouldn't surprise me." She stopped to think about it. "Actually? Yes, it would," she corrected firmly. "He doesn't strike me as the type to put up with such a mardy-assed bitch."

Sam suppressed a smile. "No, he's not."

"You two worked together a while then?" she asked, her eyes back on the paper.

"Few years," he admitted.

"So you know him pretty well?"

"I would say… mostly," Sam allowed. "You think you know someone, and then they go off and do something really odd."

"Yeah," she mused, sniffing at the paper. "Well, well, well!" she said suddenly.

"What?" he asked, turning his attention to the paper she was reading.

She turned the paper so Sam could see it. "You'll never guess whose phone number is on this sheet?"

"No. Whose?" Sam asked, peering at it.

"Neal Perry's," she said with a grim smile. "I think we just found a really odd connection - considering Neal wasn't in the Thirteen and had no reason to socialise with The Harrisons."

Sam pulled out his phone and pressed the speed-dial quickly. It rang and rang, until eventually it clicked.

'_Hey, this is Dean. I'm busy. Do the message thing_,' came the automatic response.

Sam waited for the beep. "Hey, it's me. We might have found a link between Neal and James, and it's probably nothing to do with a coven. Call me."

He cut the connection and slid the phone back into his pocket. He looked up to find Frost looking through the drawers in her desk.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked.

She closed a drawer and looked at him. "Now I call James back and ask him where he was the night Neal died in a car crash," she said seriously.

.

* * *

.

Dean slid onto the stool, loosening his tie and letting out a long huff of dissatisfaction. Two hands appeared on the bar counter and he looked up to find a middle-aged man looking back at him.

"Rough day?" he asked knowingly.

"No rougher than usual," Dean allowed.

The barman nodded. "So what'll it be? An unwinder after work? A comforter for a lost love? Or a fire-starter for a night out?"

Dean put an elbow on the counter, running the attached hand through his hair with feeling.

"Find the nastiest, strongest drink you wouldn't even give your worst enemy. And make mine a double," he sighed.

"Coming right up," the barman smiled. He turned away and picked up various bottles and cocktail shakers as Dean looked around the quiet bar room. He turned back to the counter and spied the peanuts in the glass dish, putting a hand out and snagging a few.

Dark thoughts swirled round his head as he went through the peanuts one by one, unconsciously keeping an eye on the other sparse patrons of the bar via the overhead mirror.

Presently the barman turned back to him, setting a glass down that contained something either very dark purple or very light evil.

Dean picked it up without even looking at it. He took a large sip and it burned all the way down. He almost coughed but managed to stall the urge until he'd swallowed it completely.

"That's good," he rasped, and the barman grinned.

"My speciality," he allowed. He picked up a glass and a cloth, backing away to lean on the counter behind him, watching his newest patron. "You a police officer?"

Dean snorted. "No."

"Fed?"

"Not right now," Dean sighed.

"Like that, is it?" the man commiserated. "It's a girl then, right?"

"No," Dean scoffed. He sipped at the drink again, feeling his eyes start to water, and the barman shook his head slightly.

"Rule number one - if you're gonna lie, don't drink straight after," he advised.

"I'll try to remember that," Dean managed.

The man simply waited, giving the impression he wasn't in any way, shape or form interested in his customer just a few feet away. Dean lifted the glass between generous intervals of pouting and peanuts, until eventually the supply of both alcohol and snacks ran dry.

He looked up at the man, tapping the base of the glass against the counter slightly a few times. "This one's got a hole in it," he pointed out.

"Well I'll tell you now, friend, no-one's ever finished more than two glasses o' that particular concoction," the barman said, putting down the cloth and glass, turning back to the frosted cocktail shaker.

"I ain't no-one," Dean said glumly. "At least, I don't think I am."

"Oh, I can see that," the barman smiled, his back to him. He turned around and placed the refilled glass back in front of him.

"You just think that… after all this time she mighta recognised me," he grumped. "I mean, I didn't actually recognise _her_, I know. Got her husband, yeah, I'm sure I know him alright. But I never woulda recognised her. And then she's… Well, she ain't as I remember," Dean sighed.

"That so?" the barman asked gently. "Everyone changes."

"Not like that. When I knew her, she was… she was… she was great, y'know?" he asked, looking up at the stranger.

"Oh yeah," he sighed wistfully, reaching for his cloth and empty glass again, beginning to polish.

"Well I just met up with her again today." He took a huge mouthful of the vile drink, making sure it didn't touch the sides as it tumbled down his throat.

"And she doesn't know who you are?"

"No. Which was a good thing. She ain't the sweetest thing any more," he glowered. "She's this uptight, prissy little moanin' bitch," he confessed. "It's not fair."

"No, it's not," he nodded. "But some people just go that way in the end, y'know?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "But it's not that, it's like…" He huffed, putting his elbow on the counter and letting his forehead fall into his hand. "It's just…" He looked up quickly, sitting straight on the stool. The barman nodded understandingly as Dean put his palms up and out to indicate urgency. "I do this job, right? And it's nasty - you see dead bodies, blood, people torn up every which way, the works, right?"

"Uh-huh," the barman nodded, interested.

"And sometimes it don't go how you want, and you can't save people, y'know? And - and - and you just think that for all the times you saved someone there should be a score, right? Like… like 'we got x amount of murderers this year'."

"Sounds reasonable."

"So then you do the job and bad things happen to you - _real_ bad things, and then everything you thought you knew gets all screwed up, right?" he demanded earnestly.

"Oh yeah, I hear _that_."

"And you think that like… The one time you should be able to go back to something you wanted, to find someone you really liked before it all got weird - all that, and then you meet 'em and they're not like that any more! They're like… It's not fair!" Dean protested, waving a hand out.

"Oh, I get you," the barman nodded firmly. "I know exactly what you mean."

"It sucks out loud!" Dean asserted, picking up the drink and downing half of it before he realised what he had done. "I mean, it's not like I'm lonely, right? Truth be told, I could find something in a pinch. But it's not like that, man. I mean… She was… I _really_ liked her. I needed her - I needed her to try and whip this family back into a circle instead of being a triangle of boys fightin' all the time--"

"Every family needs a woman, or it ain't a family," the man nodded.

Dean snapped his fingers, pointing at him. "Exactly! And he was so small, y'know? Mom was gone so he needed her, he just didn't know it. I tried - I mean, I really tried to make her stay - as far as I remember. But we left, we left her behind. And now she's… I just don't wanna see her all morphed out of recognition like that. She's just nasty." He shivered, picking up the drink again. "She's just nasty. And it ain't right."

"Cos you were hoping she'd recognise you?"

"I don't want _anyon__e_ to recognise me," Dean bit out. "I just want… I don't _know_ what I want." He tipped the glass back and emptied it. "Yes I do. I want another drink."

"You're sure now?" the man smiled. "That was two. The current high score."

"It ain't enough. Give me another."

"If you say so. You won't thank me tomorrow."

"I don't _care_ about tomorrow. You know what?" Dean asked suddenly, watching the man take away the glass and choose a fresh one from the side, going to the bottles and the shaker by his other side.

"What?"

"I've _given up_ caring about tomorrow. I really have. All the time it's like 'we gotta save the world', and 'what if tomorrow is the end?' and all that crap," he snapped, waving his hands out in small jazzy manoeuvres. "Well I don't care. Let it end. No-one ever tells me nothing, everyone knows more'n I do about _everything_, my brother lies to me and pretends he's still the good little boy even though we both know he ain't, I got people in high and really, _really_ low places kickin' my ass every time I look the wrong way, and even if I _did_ know what I wanted, I'm never gonna get it anyway," he protested angrily.

The barman turned and set the glass down.

"Sometimes you do," he said wisely, nodding to the glass. "Sometimes you think that you don't know what you want, but all along it was right in front of you and you ever even saw it."

"Whatever," Dean breathed, reaching for the drink.

.

.

* * *

**_Dedicated to Johnny over at the White Stag (A.K.A 'The Winchester', as we're always there in a Shaun Of The Dead kind of way): probably the best barman (and pub) in the world._**


	12. And Really Bad Heads

**TWELVE**

**And Really Bad Heads…**

.

.

Sam waited and waited, but Dean's phone simply rang and rang. He waited until it went to voicemail, then cut the connection again, not wanting to leave yet another message.

"Hey," came Frost's voice from behind him and he turned to see her coming down the path to James' house. "So James has an alibi for Neal's car crash, and he says he never spoke to Neal on the phone," she said.

"And you believe him?" Sam asked sceptically.

"Actually? Yes about Neal's accident, no about the phone calls: it's all there in black and white on the bill."

"This is going to be a personal question, but… Has he ever lied to you before?" he managed quietly.

Frost looked at him for a long moment, ostensibly thinking it over. "Not really. I mean, not over something like this," she allowed on a sigh. She gestured to his pocket with her chin. "Any luck finding our wayward agent?"

"Nope. Either he's onto something or a zombie's found him and taken his head off with a blunt spade," Sam sighed.

She chuckled, shaking her head. "And I thought all you FBI types had no sense of humour." She walked round him to her car, and Sam followed.

"He might have gone back to the motel," he added. "I should go and check on him."

"Aww, you're so sweet," she teased, walking round the car and unlocking it. She opened the door and got in, waiting for Sam to slide into the front passenger seat. "I'm sure he'll be fine, wherever he is."

"Right. Wherever he is will probably include a lot of alcohol and not a lot of food," he muttered.

"He's done this before?"

"No. He just seems to work better on JD than regular staples like bread."

She chuckled again. "Now you're pulling my leg."

"I wish," Sam muttered to himself, his voice covered by the sound of the engine starting up.

She drove to the nearest coffee house and they took their time ordering tall plain coffees. Forty minutes of sipping them leisurely while leaning on the bonnet of her car, discussing the case, did nothing to assuage Sam's unease about his brother's inexplicable disappearance or produce fresh perspective on the entire affair.

They donated their cups to the parking lot's recycle bin and Frost drove them back to the station. Just as they began to climb out of the car Sam's phone started to ring. He looked at the display and flicked his gaze at Frost before answering it.

"Yeah, of course it's me. Where are you?" He paused, his face screwing up in confusion. "What? Dude! I can't understand what you're--. Are you _drunk_?"

Frost rolled her eyes and got out of the car, closing her door. Sam followed suit, listening to the phone intently.

"How much have you had?" Sam asked incredulously. He looked at his watch, then caught Frost raising disapproving eyebrows at him across the roof of the car. "Look, shut up. Stop talking. Stop!" he cried more loudly. "Just tell me_ where - you - are_," he stressed. "What do you mean, you don't know?" he demanded, then pouted at some remark from the phone. Frost walked round the car and put her hand out for the phone. He jerked it away, then covered the mouthpiece. "He's a lewd drunk," he warned in a whisper. "What?" he asked quickly into the phone. "No! No! Dude, stay there," he said quickly. "There's a what? So give him the phone already!"

Frost waited and then Sam relaxed visibly.

"Hey there. Yes, I'm his partner. It's called the what? '_The Buck And Ear_'? Cute," Sam observed. "Thanks, man. Just make him stay till I can get there to take him off your hands. Thanks, I really appreciate it."

He cut the line and looked at Frost. "Can I ask you a favour?"

"You can ask," she nodded with a smile.

"Could you drop me at some bar called '_The Buck And Ear_'? Agent Lee is apparently propped on one of their barstools, attempting to drink the bar dry in interesting mixtures."

"Of course," she allowed. "He's got his car, right?"

"He has. I just need a lift to find him and then I can get him back to the motel from there."

"You're too good to him, you know that?" she sighed, turning round and walking back round the car.

"Oh yeah," Sam sighed.

.

* * *

.

Dean opened an eye to find everything was black. He opened the other eye, realising something that smelt of cotton was pressed to his face. He lifted a hand to check if he had any open wounds on the back of his head. He couldn't feel any, and resignedly concluded that there must be another reason for the aching, throbbing banging going on inside his skull.

He swallowed and regretted it, feeling his throat raw and begging to be left alone for just a few more hours. His mouth was parched and yet, as he put his hands under him and lifted, it flushed with sudden water. He groaned and rolled off the bed, landing in a heap on the carpet. He got to his hands and knees and found his feet, throwing himself at the bathroom door.

Sam stirred, rolling onto his back and realising he was awake and listening to rather nasty loud gagging noises coming from the bathroom.

He opened his eyes and sat up, confirming the door was in fact open.

"Dude!" he called out. "Door!"

Another heaving sound, another heavy expulsion, and then something hit the inside of the door. It swung closed with a tiny slam and the noises continued.

Sam huffed, pushing his legs over the side of the bed and sitting, listening to the noises dry up slowly over the next fifteen minutes. He put his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. Eventually he heard the toilet flush and taps start in the sink, and someone sounded busy with toothbrushes and mouthwash for the next five minutes.

At last the door opened again and Dean stumbled out, his black suit jacket missing, his shoes off, his tie AWOL and his white FBI shirt open by several buttons. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair looked like it had gone three rounds with a manic leaf-blower and lost. His pasty white face and screwed up pained little red eyes put Sam in mind of some kind of zombified Crossroads demon as he watched his brother make his way back to the bed.

He put his hands out and sat carefully, groaning as he fell over on his side, his back to Sam. He curled up slowly, still groaning, as his younger brother watched him.

"Feeling better?"

Dean didn't answer. He reached over his head with his free left hand, grabbing the pillow from the top of the bed and dragging it down. He dropped it over his head and groaned to himself.

Sam folded his arms. He opened his mouth but then his phone started to ring. He reached over to the side table and snatched it up, not even looking at the display.

"Yes," he snapped.

"Morning."

"Oh, Chief. Hey," he said quickly, sounding much more friendly.

"I need you two in my office right now. And I _do_ mean right now."

"What? Why?" Sam asked, already getting to his feet to look for clothes.

"Because two more people were killed last night."

"Two more? Who?" he asked, spotting his shirt and going for it.

"The Harrisons," she breathed.

.

* * *

.

"The Harrisons," John grinned, lifting his glass. "Congratulations on your engagement."

James and Nara lifted their drinks too, and the three of them drank down the whisky. James swallowed his first.

"And John. Without whom we would still be worried about zombies in the neighbourhood," James smiled.

"Actually, it was Dean who figured it out," he shrugged. "And he was right."

"Smart lad," Nara grinned.

"Of course he is, he's mine," John beamed, and Nara winked at him. Then he sighed, setting the glass down on the table. "We'll be off. Thanks for everything," he said firmly.

"It's been fun," Nara smiled. "It won't be the same without you three here."

"You say that now," John said wisely. "The police will come for us sooner or later, just like Officer Watts did last week. And I got to get these boys to a new state and a new school. Dean's missing valuable term-time."

"Seems to me Dean's doing well enough learning from the real world," James allowed, and John looked at him. "I'm not saying he shouldn't be at school, I'm just saying he's a bright kid. Knows a lot about the internal workings of a Ford," he added, looking a little cross for a second.

"Does this have something to do with your car not starting yesterday?" Nara asked suddenly.

"No! Don't be silly," James chuckled quickly. "Anyway. Anything else we can do for you before you leave?"

"Well… Proper burials for the zombies would be good. Peter and Susan Barrington and Parker Watts. Oh, and Amy Watts," John added.

"Of course. We wouldn't want them getting up again," James smiled.

Nara nudged him hard in the ribs. "That wasn't nice."

"It's true though," he protested.

"Most nasty things are," John sighed. "Well. I'll go look in on the boys." He waved a hand over his shoulder as he left the room.

James looked at Nara, putting an arm round her shoulder. "Thanks for agreeing to marry me," he smiled.

"As if I'd say anything else. I'm just glad you're willing to wait a while first," she sighed.

"Hey, I'd wait forever for you," he teased.

"Yeeuuk!" she chuckled dramatically.

.

* * *

.

John walked round the bedroom door and stopped in the doorway, folding his arms.

"Just pack your toys, Sammy. We're leaving," Dean grumped.

He was shoving things into his duffle, his back to the door, as Sam attempted to roll up a t-shirt in his little hands. It fell and Sam huffed at it, unimpressed by its will to disobey him. Dean turned at the sound and tutted, going over and picking up the shirt. He rolled it professionally and handed it back to Sam.

"In the bag, Sammy," he commanded.

"I know," Sam protested. He waited until Dean had turned away again, then stuck his tongue out at his back. "I don't wanna go. She's nice to us."

"Tough," Dean snapped.

"I wanna stay here," Sam whined.

"And I want you to shut your piehole, but we don't always get what we want," Dean shot back.

"Dean!" John admonished, walking in properly. "We really need to talk about what you can and can't say."

"Yes sir," Dean mumbled automatically.

"I know you both like it here. I know it's not fair. But we have to go before Officer Watts comes back. You do remember him, right?" John pressed.

"Yes sir," the boys intoned.

"Right. Well. Sammy, you done?" he asked, going over and crouching down to help the little four-year-old zip up the small bag he had.

"Yeah. Dean did most of it for me," he said sadly.

John looked over at his eldest. "You good?"

"No. But I'm ready to go," he pouted.

John sighed, picking Sam up and sitting him on his arm. Sam brought his little bag with him, grabbing onto his father's back with one hand.

"Come on then," John said quietly. "Let's make tracks."

.

* * *

.

The road outside was quiet, just the Impala parked at the kerb with her customary patience. John ushered Sam and Dean ahead of him, hearing Nara and James talking at him as they got out into the bright sunshine of the afternoon.

John made sure Dean had a good hold on Sam's hand before he turned and looked at his hosts.

Nara stepped down from the front door and caught John in a long, lasting hug. He patted her back and then looked down at her from arms' length.

"Thanks for taking care of ma boys," he smiled.

"No worries. Sam's lovely - but you watch out for Dean," she teased. "He's going to be a troublemaker one day."

John just raised his eyebrows at her. "If you say so." He patted her arm once, then winked and turned to see his two sons watching him warily. Sam let go of Dean's hand, running up to Nara and grabbing her legs.

"Bye, Soup Angel!" he called up at her. She grinned and lifted him up to her hip, hugging him tightly.

"Bye, Sammy-Sam-Samuel," she said warmly. "Listen to your brother, do what he tells you, ok?"

"Ok!" Sam chirped, giggling as she tickled him slightly. He leaned his face into hers, pushing a huge wet kiss into her cheek. "Bye!"

She laughed and set him down, and he ran to his father. John lifted him up and sat him on his arm.

"Well, we ready?" he asked, looking at Dean.

His eldest looked at him. "I'll be one minute," he muttered.

John looked at Nara, amused, then bounced Sam on his arm, making him giggle.

"C'mon then squirt, let's get in the car."

"Yay! The supercar!" Sam cried excitedly as they turned and walked off.

Dean swallowed and looked at Nara guiltily.

"So," she said bravely, her hands stealing onto her hips.

"So, ah… Bye," he shrugged, his eyes on her boots.

"Oh Dean," she sighed, wandering over and putting her hand to his hair lightly. He looked up at her.

"I didn't mean to be horrible to James," he managed. "And… If you marry him and he's good enough for you, then… Well, you know," he grumped.

She grinned. "Hey, Dean, look at me," she said knowingly. He didn't move so she crouched down to meet his eyes. He watched her reluctantly. "I'll see you in '97, if you want. And anyway, you might not want to come back. You'll be eighteen."

"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked, puzzled.

"You're so young," she grinned wisely. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead lightly. He didn't pull away, but when she looked at him he had a weak look of distaste on his face.

"What did I say about kissing?" he protested, but she thought she heard a tiny sliver of pleasure in there.

"You're right, I'm so sorry, what was I thinking," she grinned. She put her palm out and he slapped it.

"Ok. Gotta go. See you later," he said. He turned away but abruptly he turned round again, flinging his arms round her. She held onto him.

"Stay safe, Dean. You're my favourite, even over James," she whispered.

"Sweet!" Dean grinned, apparently delighted. "See you later then."

"Yeah," she smiled. "Don't forget, you've got your circle-in-the-stone VIP pass."

"You can come in the Impala anytime," he winked cheekily. Then he turned and ran off, leaving her to shake her head and smile.

She watched him climb into the Impala, bouncing around on the rear seat. He kneeled up to look out of the rear windscreen. A small head appeared next to him and four hands grabbed the rear vinyl to see over the top.

The car roared into life, her tyres churning up the dust as she leapt forward. Sam and Dean waved frantically, and she lifted her hand to wave back. She waved and waved till they were well out of sight.

She heard a voice call her from behind. She turned and saw James approaching.

"That kid gone yet?" he teased.

"Yeah," she sighed.

"You actually sound sad," he observed, putting an arm round her.

"Maybe I am." She shook her head. "Maybe it was just bad timing."

James looked at her oddly. "Well, get over him darlin', you're marrying me," he grinned.

"That I am." _But I'll be seeing him again, one day_, she heard her mind run on, _and something tells me the next time we meet will be very different_.

James pulled her round and they walked back to the step of the house. She paused slightly as she walked over the circle scored into the stone slab.

_Oh yeah. Very different_.

She went in, a small smile on her face, as James turned. He stretched his arm out to the door and pushed it closed for her. "Here."

.

* * *

.

"Here," she said loudly, dropping a manila folder onto her desk in front of Dean. He had his right elbow on the wooden surface, his chin in his hand, and a pair of very, _very_ dark sunglasses on.

She walked around the desk and sat, looking at Sam. "James and his wife were killed at approximately three a.m. Both decapitated," she said quietly. "It's all in the report."

Dean's left hand stirred from the desk and landed on the manila file. He pushed it across the table to his brother slowly.

"Coffee, Agent Lee?" she smiled sweetly.

Dean's mouth opened but no sound came out. It closed again.

"Mostly we just leave him till he can see straight again," Sam nodded helpfully, and she smiled.

"Wow. Y'know, Billy was impressed. He's never had a customer drink _six_ Meshuggeners before," she said dryly. "My personal limit is two."

"Yes, well. Agent Lee's actually a superhero at night. His personal superpower is being able to disperse alcohol throughout his entire body evenly, so as to delay the inevitable," Sam smiled maliciously.

"You mean he has hollow legs," she chuckled.

"After this morning, he has now," Sam grinned. He leaned forward and took the file, opening it. He looked over the pictures of corpses and sniffed gamely, looking at the typed-up findings.

"You know," she said slowly, "I sat at home all last night just thinking about James. Thinking why we were together so long in the first place. Realising why I turned down his marriage proposal - and left him." Sam flicked his gaze at her, then down again at the file. "And do you know what I came up with?"

"He's a dick," Dean breathed painfully.

Sam slammed his hand into Dean's left shoulder harshly. Frost scowled before she controlled it. Then she reached over and slid Dean's glasses up to sit in his hair. For a moment she was distracted by the softness and the strange lightness that his hair displayed when free of any wax or gel - obviously personal grooming, other than toothpaste and water, had gone out of the window for him with such a perfect ten on the hangover scoreboard. She removed her hand from his invitingly downy hair with a slight sigh, taking in his face. She was unsurprised to find his eyes were closed anyway. She sat back, adjusting her expression to one more suited to an annoyed Chief of Police.

"No. That I was only with him cos there was no-one else in the town," she admitted. "I left him cos I didn't need to keep myself busy while I waited on someone else to come along. I just wanted to be on my own and free of all the 'let's do everything together' touchy-feely crap."

"Amen to that," Dean rumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Maybe we should come back when my partner is more able to concentrate on the case," he suggested brightly.

"Maybe," she allowed. She looked at Dean. "You want some salt water?"

He opened an eye. "You really _were_ a witch," he accused.

She smiled for a moment but then her face fell. "I don't really feel like being here today. I think I'm going home."

"Good idea," Sam nodded. "This whole case has been hard on you, and… Well, you seemed to be pretty close to James. Now he's gone… You should go home for a while."

"Thanks," she said stiffly.

"Bullcrap," Dean hiccupped, and they both looked at him. His eyes were closed again and he was leaning into his hand like a mastless pirate ship. "Too many people have died already. When are we gonna figure this thing out, torch the bastard responsible, and leave this hell-hole of a crappy town?"

Frost got to her feet slowly. "Mr Peart, why don't you take Agent Lee somewhere safely out of my reach, and I'll go home," she said coldly.

Dean opened his eyes blearily. "Oh, hey, I didn't mean _everything_ in this whole town is--"

"Lee," she snapped. He squinted up at her as clearly as he dared. She looked at him for a long moment. "Go back to your nasty little motel and sleep." She looked over at Sam. "Peart, you can take any and all of these case files if you like. Call me if you find anything I've missed the few hundred times I read them."

"Will do, Chief," he allowed, getting to his feet and stowing the newest file under his arm. He looked at Dean, then leaned over and grabbed his arm, forcing him to try and stand. "Make an effort," he growled.

Dean straightened up and shook Sam's hand off his arm. He looked at Frost. "Nuthin' personal," he mumbled.

Frost eyed him coldly. "You might want to look into why you felt the need to get yourself in this state in the first place. It is _not_ attractive, in case you hadn't realised."

"'K," he managed, turning away. Sam watched him trudge off toward the office door.

"I'll see what I can find," Sam said, turning and nodding to Frost. She waved him off and he followed his brother out of the office, closing the door quietly.

.

* * *

.

_**Dedicated to anyone who's ever had a Big Night Out, and Bestest Mate - and the many Big Nights Out we had before her Big Leaving Do. Re: that night: I don't think it was the rum or vodka, I think it was the tequila that caused 24 hours of carnage after the fact. Any of those spirits on top of Grandma's Trifles and B52s is bad. Oh, and I swear I didn't know noodles could burn like that. I blame 7-11's microwave.**_


	13. Coming To A Head

**THIRTEEN**

**Coming To A Head**

.

.

Dean opened his eyes and looked at the side table. He jumped with some primal feeling of urgency and flipped over onto his elbows, finding the familiar motel ceiling. He squinted around the room, found nothing of import going on, and let himself fall on his back. He lifted his wrist, checking the time and finding it nearly six thirty in the evening.

He put his elbows under him again and looked around the room, unsurprised to find Sam at the small table, hunched over his laptop.

"Hey," Dean croaked, before clearing his throat.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, pre-occupied.

"Found anything?"

"Apart from an interesting new way to develop back muscle problems? No," Sam sighed. He twisted in the chair and looked back at his brother. "You able to speak and walk like a grown-up now?"

Dean, ironically, grunted an affirmative and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, still in his black trousers and white shirt.

"Are you gonna tell me why you went out and got drunk? In the middle of the afternoon?" he pressed cautiously.

"No," Dean grumped, leaning his elbows on his knees and scrubbing his hands over his head.

"C'mon, man. I covered for you and I've been doing all the work so far. The least you could do is explain what made you take off like that. Was it something the Chief said?"

"You two are BFF all of a sudden, why don't you ask _her_?" Dean snapped, realising it was coming out harsher than he had intended. "I'm sure Chief _Jo_ would be only too happy to tell you her life story."

"Dean," Sam groused. "What is it? She said something about fish soup and you just took off. It started with James, right? At his house?"

Dean huffed and let himself fall back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"It started with James. I know the dude - from a very long time ago. I was like… ten, or something. And I knew his wife."

"Mrs Harrison?"

"Nara. Her name was Nara," he sighed.

Sam heard some tone in there and bit his lip. "When you say 'knew', you mean--"

"Dad dumped us here for a while, alright? You were like… five, maybe. Something like that. And Nara was… she was here and she baby-sat us. She was… great," Dean managed.

"'Great'. Like she gave you car magazines and didn't bitch about you stealing my candy?"

"Like she was funny, and clever, and… and she was marrying James," he sighed.

Sam hid a smile. "Right," he allowed. "And you met her again and she didn't even recognise you. Wow, heart-breaking," he pointed out maliciously. "So you went out and got hammered? Is that it?"

"It's everything!" Dean protested, still directed at the ceiling. "Friggin' zombies, man! I hate 'em! And why are we doing so badly at this one? Why are more people dying? I swear, it's like we look away and someone else gets their head sliced off. What are we doing wrong? What are we not seeing?"

Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I get it," he allowed. His phone started to ring and he sat forwards, grabbing it off the table. "Yeah, hi. Chief," he said, surprised. "O-k," he allowed slowly. "Yeah, up and around, back to his normal, world-hating self," he said cheerfully.

Dean sat up slowly, scowling at his brother across the room.

"We could. It might be easier," he allowed. "Ok then. Yeah. See you then. --Ah - no anchovies."

He cut the connection and looked at his brother. "Awww, Chief Jo is worried about you. She's inviting us over to pool all the records and ideas - over beer and pizza. I knew you'd say yes," he added with a broad smile.

"I _am_ starving," Dean conceded, getting to his feet.

"And the fact that the Chief is on your To Do list makes no never-mind to you, right?" Sam grinned.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to let the remark irk him. "Sam. I am going to have a shower. You're gonna shut up and get your crap together so we can go eat pizza and drink her beer. Ok?"

"Ok," Sam said with a large grin. "Make sure you wash behind your ears."

Dean opened his eyes and made a beeline for the bathroom.

"Oh, and don't take too long - we're meeting her at the pizza place. She's getting ready to leave for there now."

Dean slammed the door behind him. Sam chuckled, looking back at his laptop.

.

* * *

.

Dean rolled the Impala to a stop next to the champagne coloured BMW and killed the engine, sitting back in the seat. Sam was already opening his door and getting out, squeaking the door shut as Dean opened his.

He hauled himself out of the car and sniffed, glad to be out of FBI duds and the cheap motel room. He looked up to see Sam cross the car park and open the door to the pizza place. He shrugged into his heavy plaid shirt and followed.

He pushed his way through the door, spying the chief and his brother engaged in a cheery discussion as they leant on the counter. He approached warily, coming to a stop behind Sam and clearing his throat.

Sam turned and looked at him. "Told you he can smell food three blocks away," he said to Frost.

She looked at Dean with a politeness that masked something much more dangerous. "Feeling better, Lee?"

Dean glanced at Sam, darted his eyes to the door, and then looked at his feet as he pushed a casual hand at his nose.

Sam looked at Frost deliberately. "This is where the truth outs and so do I," he said clearly, and she smiled despite her chilly demeanour.

"Right," she allowed, and Sam turned and walked off, the bell jingling as he opened the door and left smartly.

She folded her arms, waiting. Dean looked up slowly, but his eyes fell on the counter top next to her elbow.

"Look, I ah… I'm sorry about James dying," he said heavily.

"I think you were more concerned about his wife," she said pointedly.

Dean's eyes closed slowly, she noticed. It made Frost frown, confused.

"Yeah, and her. No matter how she turned out, she didn't deserve that."

"Ah."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at the police chief. "And I'm sorry I said he was a dick. Whether he was or not, he's dead, and you two were… It was an asshole thing to say."

"There _was_ a reason I left him," she admitted. "And much as it pains me to say this… yeah, sometimes he was a dick."

He just watched her for a long moment. "I'm ah… I'm trying to get this figured out," he offered. "It's just… it's just that it doesn't seem to want to get solved, y'know? And… and too many people are dying while we're here with our thumbs up our asses."

"And there we go again, Mr Impatient," she sighed. "I know you two are trying. So am I. And I know it's frustrating - but perhaps if you didn't go off and get wasted in the middle of a case, it might get solved a little quicker."

"Everyone else is allowed to have bad days, why not me?" he countered, suddenly angry. "Other people complain about their bosses, their wives, their dogs, the real boring, safe, tiny stuff. Why can't I get pissed off cos of deaths, mutilations, murders and stuff that actually _matters_?"

She eyed him, letting her hands drop. "You do have a point," she observed. "One thing I hated about James was that he thought my work stopped when I came through the door at home, like I could pretend all was safe and well with the world when I was off-duty. As if there was nothing and no-one in the dark when I took my uniform off."

"Yeah right," Dean snorted. "It'd be nice to live in _his_ world."

"It was - for a while. But then you grow up and realise the actual world doesn't work like that." She smiled slightly. "Apology accepted, bridges built, common ground found. Are we good now?" she teased.

He felt himself smile for what seemed like the first time in a long time. "I think so," he nodded. "Unless you're gonna be on my back about messing with the files in your office again."

"Here we are," said a pleasant voice, and she turned to see a young man behind the service counter brandishing a cardboard box.

"Oh, Agent Lee," Frost scoffed as she put her hand out for the pizza box, "if I were going to be on you in any way, it wouldn't be your back."

Dean's mouth opened and then his eyes flicked to the ceiling as he tried to think of a come-back. He felt something in his chest and found her pushing the pizza box at him. He took it quickly, stepping back as she collected change from the assistant. She turned and found him watching her, still holding the pizza box in the same position.

She smiled broadly and put her hand out for the box. Her fingers overlapped his and she paused, watching his eyes study her with curiosity. She only realised she had lost track of time when his mouth opened.

"We standing here all night, or going to your place and eating this pie?" he rumbled.

She swallowed and took the box from him curtly, walking past him and out of the shop door. He blew out a huff and rubbed the back of his neck quickly, following her out.

She was already advising Sam to follow and sliding into her driver's seat. Dean trudged over to the Impala and opened up the door, throwing himself in and starting the engine quickly.

The BMW was already reversing and disappearing out of the exit and Dean swung the old girl back and round hastily, following.

"What's her hurry?" Sam asked innocently, watching the rear lights of the BMW tear off into the evening traffic.

"Cold pizza ain't no fun," Dean offered, keeping his eyes on the traffic as they followed.

A twenty minute drive later and she was turning off the main road and heading through smaller, quieter lanes. She brought the BMW to a stop by the kerb and got out, appearing unhurried. Dean coasted the Impala to a stop behind it, cutting the engine and climbing out quickly. Sam squeaked his door open and closed as Dean walked round the back of the car to get to the pavement. He happened to look to his left and spotted the old house he had been having afternoon tea in so recently.

"That's the old lady's house," he pointed out.

"Amber Kerr? Yeah, I know," Frost said. "She knows everything about everyone in this town."

"So is it time we compared serious notes?" Sam asked innocently.

"Is it ever," Frost said with an innocuous look at Dean. She turned and walked off to the small gate at the path.

Sam nudged Dean's shoulder. He just looked at him, his hands spread in innocence. Sam pushed at him and they followed her up the path.

Dean slowed, causing Sam to bump into him from behind.

"What is it, man?" Sam asked, irritated.

Frost was unlocking the front door, but she turned at their voices.

Dean was staring up at the house. "Just… I been here before," he managed. "I thought it looked familiar when I came outta the old lady's house. Now I _know_ I been here before," he added firmly.

"All these old houses look familiar," Frost offered.

Dean looked at her, then walked to the front door. She stepped to one side, bemused, as he put his hand to the wooden door. He swung it in slowly, a strange look of dawning horror on his face.

"What is it?" Sam asked again, now agitated in a much more worried way by his brother's discomfort.

Dean turned on the step, looking out at the quiet street and the lights on in the evening air. He looked down at his feet as if stuck in slow-motion. He stared down, his mouth opening slowly.

"What?" Frost asked, baffled.

She watched Dean crouch down and put his hand to the rough mat of the step. He peeled it back, the damp area that sported trapped grass blades and the occasional bug not even registering with him while he slid his fingers over the stone as if it held a message in Braille.

"See the circle?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Well… of course - it's been there for twenty years," she scoffed, eyeing his fingers on the ancient shape, scored into the stone. "How did you know it was th--"

"Cos _I_ made that circle," Dean said slowly, staring at her. "_I_ made that circle. While I was sittin' _right here_ waitin' for Dad."

She stared in patent confusion and disbelief, a look Sam was mirroring, albeit to a much lesser extent.

"You lived here. With your now-ex, James Harrison," Dean said slowly, his brain turning it over. "If this is your place and you were in the coven and you were here cos you were living with James, that makes you--. _Nara_?" he demanded, his face screwing up in abrupt alarm. "_You're_ Nara?"

"Dean? You're the Dean that made the circle?" she gasped, her face a picture of disbelief. "No no no no no - you're _Dean_?"

She advanced on him and he just managed to get upright before she grabbed his arm, pulling him round to look at him squarely. She put her free hand to his jaw, pulling his face round and staring openly.

"Bloody hell! I _knew_ you reminded me of someone!" Her hand ran up the side of his face and her thumb swept over his cheekbone firmly. "Same nose! Same angry eyes!" She let her hand drop from his face, which seemed to happen just a shade before Sam began watching the pavement between his feet. "I had no idea! You! Little Dean! All grown up and pretending to be FBI!" she cried, chuckling, as she grabbed hold of his arms tightly.

"Oh, there's more," Dean admitted.

"What?"

"That Sasquatch behind you? The Bigfoot with the huge hair? That's _little Sammy-Sam-Samuel_."

.

.


	14. Rushing Headlong

**FOURTEEN**

**Rushing Headlong**

.

"I can't believe it - you two are really Sam and Dean?" Frost laughed, her hands still squeezing Dean's arms tightly.

"Yeah," he allowed, searching her face. "I thought you were… I thought you were Mrs Harrison. And dead."

She let her hands drop and looked back at Sam. "Yeah well. _That's_ a long story. Let's get inside."

She pushed past him and into the house, the two boys following her. Sam paused to close the front door behind them, looking around the hall and trying to find anything familiar. Nothing leapt out at him. He walked on through the large, eerie house, hearing her voice from the room beyond.

"Sam and Dean," Frost was sighing.

Sam rounded the kitchen doorjamb to see her holding an empty coffee mug in each hand, just staring at Dean. He was shrugging, leaning back on the counter with his arms folded.

"Yeah. And we're not FBI."

"Oh I knew _that_," she tutted, turning and putting the mugs down next to him.

Dean looked up at Sam and indicated her with his thumb. "Oh, did you hear that? She _knew_ we weren't FBI," he said pointedly.

Sam scowled at him. "So, if you knew," he said politely, his face clearing as he looked over at her, "why didn't you say anything?"

"What, and chase away two good-looking young men from a very weird case? Besides, I was out of sane leads and you two seemed to know more about all this zombie stuff than you were letting on," she shrugged. "And you definitely were _not_ from a straight-laced background. I thought perhaps you were into some weird cult thing like I was," she teased. She leaned over and switched on the electric kettle. She turned and looked at them both. "But… wow," she grinned, shaking her head. "You two got so big! Especially you," she said, eyeing Sam.

"Yeah, uhm… Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but… do I know you?" he havered.

She looked at Dean, one eyebrow raised. "Still the polite one," she joked.

Dean looked at his feet. "You know when I said we been here before? In Pahrump? When you were like five--"

"Four," Frost interrupted.

"Four," Dean amended, looking at her briefly before back at his brother. "And Dad had to leave us here for a whole two weeks? Well it was here. In this house, with this girl. It wasn't so bad," he allowed.

"Wasn't so bad?" Frost laughed, and he looked at her. Sam recognised a tiny shade of embarrassment on his elder brother's face. "Oh hey, and I have a bone to pick with you," she said suddenly, jabbing a steel finger into Dean's arm.

"What?"

"1997, mister," she said haughtily.

Dean looked confused. "1997?"

"Yeah - 1997. When you were _eighteen_. Where were you? Cos you certainly didn't come back and ma--"

"Oh! 1997!" Dean said quickly, drowning her out. Sam looked from one to the other, lost. Dean nodded. "Yeah… Hah! I ah… We were at some crappy high school or other," he managed a little weakly.

"And you didn't come back," she said.

"Did you honestly think I would?"

"I… didn't. At first," she said quietly. She turned away to look at the kettle, finding it nearly boiled. She reached for the jar of instant coffee powder, unscrewing the lid and keeping her eyes on it.

"At first?" Dean prompted.

She drew in a deep breath. "Well, I had a real life, things to do - it wasn't like you knew what you were saying when you were - what, eight?"

"Nearly nine," he protested, and she laughed out loud.

Sam raised eyebrows at her, and she waved a hand at him.

"Sorry, but that was all he said for the two weeks you were here any time anyone challenged him about _anything_," she chuckled.

"So we were here for two weeks, we all met, then we left?" Sam hazarded.

"Yeah. I was engaged to James, then I went off to college in England. I came back and we lived together, still engaged, but…" She put down the jar, spooning coffee powder into three mugs. She sniffed. "Well, never did get married, obviously. You were right, Dean, you were so very right - he _wasn't_ fun."

"Did I say that?" he mused, then realised he had said it out loud.

"Did you ever," she sighed. She lifted the kettle and poured in the hot water. "And then it must have been around… I don't know, 1998? I was working in the police, had a good pay-packet, nice uniform, and one day this kid was brought into the station. I often had this little giggle over 1997 and what you promised me, and… Well, me and James were already on the rocks, he was looking for alternative digs - I was already Officer Frost in the Force. And then… well, call it a silly whim of a jaded older woman," she sighed. She stirred the mugs thoughtfully. "But this young man gets hauled in and I couldn't stop staring at his hair. There was something about the colour - and it made me think of you. I had a few strange weeks of wondering where you were, what you were doing - and if you'd even remember me."

"It'd be difficult to forget the soup angel," Dean smiled, and she looked at him, surprised.

"You remember that?" she grinned.

"Are you kidding? It was all Sam went on about for _weeks_," he chuckled. He looked over at his brother. "Dean, when's the soup angel coming back? Dean, who's gonna make the soup?" he mimicked in a tiny voice, making Sam roll his eyes. But then Dean's smile faded as he added, "Dean, why didn't you make her come with us?"

It was quiet in the kitchen for a long moment. She turned slowly and walked over to Sam, handing him a mug of very welcome coffee. He took it gratefully, watching her sad face as she turned back to the counter.

"So you met Hannah through the Thirteen," Sam said slowly, "and Neal through Hannah. How about Annette?"

"We were in the same school," she sighed. "She was three years ahead of me, though."

She picked up a mug and turned to Dean. He put his hand out for it and she handed it over. His fingers grasped the mug but hers were trapped underneath, and she paused for a long second. Sam noticed and looked at his own coffee with sudden interest.

"She, ah…" Frost began, letting go of Dean's mug to turn away to her own. "She married Cole a long time ago, now. They were always together at school, always around. Everyone knew they'd end up married." She smiled to herself slightly. "But Neal… he was trouble from the get-go. Always ridiculing the 'witches', ridiculing our ways, and finally Hannah told him to sling his hook. He did, they fought for a while… She was a really, _really_ nice girl. We had no secrets, she and I," she sighed.

"So how exactly did Neal die?" Sam asked. "His file wasn't in the bundle I took from your office."

"Car accident," she shrugged. "All I know is, one day I get a call saying there's a car smashed into one of our oldest trees on the road out of here. When I got there and found out who it was, I was more upset about the damage to the tree, to be honest."

"Nice," Dean observed.

"It's over three hundred years old! It's important to us, ok?"

"By 'us' you mean Wiccans," Dean pointed out.

"You knew what I was the night Officer Watts came in, trying to take you away from us," she shot back with a firmness that made Sam smile.

"Yeah. I did," Dean said, equally firmly. They looked at each other for a long moment. "So anyone tamper with Neal's brakes? Anyone want him dead?"

"We investigated," she said archly. "I _am_ a police officer, _Dean_."

"Did you find anything?" Sam asked politely.

She looked at him. "We had a list of suspects as long as my arm," she sighed. "We went through every one of them, but in the end we had no physical evidence whatsoever. I mean, there was nothing at all on the car to indicate anyone had ever touched any of it."

"You don't think… It wouldn't have been one of the Thirteen?" Sam dared.

She stared at him. Hard. "No, Sam, it wasn't one of the Thirteen. We don't _do_ that kind of thing."

"You just cast spells to get the chief's chair?" Dean asked innocently. She swivelled on the balls of her feet and stared at him with eyes that could have scratched tungsten carbide. "Oh come on, you know at least me or Sam was thinkin' it," Dean said defensively.

Sam raised a hand. "_I_ wasn't," he countered sweetly.

"No I did not," Frost interrupted. "If you want to chart my meteoric rise to the top, go look at the public records of my commendations for valour - oh, and my steady yet _documented_ work record. And while you're at it, find the few newspaper clippings about me solving a succession of murders _by myself_ and the fact that Ben, the old chief, named me as successor two years before he stepped down."

Dean opened his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and closed his mouth again.

"I'll take that as an apology," she smiled, turning back to her mug.

Dean looked over at his younger brother, was who smiling, ostensibly at his coffee. Dean pulled a face at him, almost sticking his tongue out, before he looked at his own drink.

"Bathroom still upstairs?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Yeah. Been repainted a few times since you last saw it, but yeah, same place it always was," she smiled warmly.

Dean put the mug down. "So compare notes already. And find where that pizza went." He gave Frost one last, lingering look before turning for the kitchen door and disappearing out of it.

She turned to watch him go, shaking her head. She looked at Sam. "I still can't get over how tall you got," she sighed, hearing feet on the stairs.

"Yeah well," he allowed. "I'm sorry - I really don't remember you."

"You wouldn't - last time I saw you, you could curl up and sleep on my lap," she teased. "So what do we do here? We need to know how and why Neal came back first? You think he's the key?"

"I do," Sam nodded. "I also need to know if there are any other covens about - anyone else who might resent your Thirteen and want to pick them off."

"You think someone's going for the Thirteen?"

"To be honest, probably not - but it's still possible. Neal was the blunt instrument, but he attacked Hannah in that alley. Does he have any family?"

"Neal had one family member left - his father. The rest I don't know about, but they were never around."

"Right. Then we start with him," Sam shrugged. He turned and walked out of the kitchen and Frost picked up her mug, following him through to the front room. "Do you have a power point around here? An internet socket?"

"Ah - there's only one socket," she said, "upstairs, in my study."

"You only have one internet socket?" he queried, apparently put out. She grinned.

"It's an old house. And they struggled to get _that_ one wired in. Come on, I'll show you," she waved. Sam shouldered his duffle and followed her to the stairs. Every single one creaked as they walked up, and as they hit the landing they heard taps running from behind the nearest door. "Bathroom," she said, as if Sam couldn't figure it out, and they walked on past it to the far door. She swung it open. "My own little private sanctum. Please don't touch anything."

"Oh, I just need a flat surface for my laptop," he nodded, walking in.

It was a nice homely room, with a large old wooden desk strangely uncluttered. He spotted the rather oversized looking twenty-four inch monitor on it, and the tiny wireless keyboard and mouse underneath. He turned away from it all resolutely.

"You like?" she grinned knowingly.

"Ah, well, it's ok," he shrugged defensively, pulling out his laptop from his duffle and clearing his throat.

A head appeared round the door and Dean looked in. "Wow, Sam, look at the size of that thing!" he breathed, eyeing the large monitor. He noticed Sam turn away from it and look at Frost. Dean walked into the room and smiled at her. "Bet _that_ don't hang trying to open Busty Asian Beauties dot com," he mused, turning on Sam. "How come hers is so much _bigger_ than yours?" he grinned in the maddeningly tart way that he knew would irk his younger brother.

"That's just the _monitor_," Sam pointed out. "Mine's still got a two gig processor."

"Two gig? Is that all? My baby's running a three-point-oh-six gig Intel processor," she sniffed.

"Well… I've still got two gig RAM," he added, almost petulantly.

"Eight gig of DDR2 SDRAM, and a one terabyte hard drive to boot," she said helpfully. "And before you ask, yes, the entire computer is housed right here in the monitor. _This_," she said grandly, walking over and stroking the side of the mat silver casing with mock fondness, "is what we in the trade call 'The Dog's Bollocks of the Mac World'," she teased deliberately.

"Well this is supposed to be a laptop - y'know, for _portability_," he said defensively.

She shook her head in mock-sympathy. "You keep telling yourself that, Sammy-Sam-Samuel."

Sam grinned. "You know far too much about computers for a police chief," he allowed.

"Girl's got to have a hobby," she shrugged.

"Oh God, not you too," Dean sighed.

"Anyway. I'm going to check back through these family trees, see what I can dig up," Sam announced as he opened up his laptop and found a good spot to set it down on the desk.

"I'll give you a--" Dean began.

"Woah woah woah!" Sam turned and pinned him with a look that could have been broken up and served in expensive alcohol. "Are you kidding? Get lost, let me think without you moaning about food, time or geeks."

"Alright, dude, but I'm only going cos I got coffee and pizza waitin' for me in the kitchen," he protested.

Frost put a hand up and grabbed Dean's sleeve over his upper arm. "Come on, you. Never interrupt a surfer when they're on a mission," she said wisely. She pulled and Dean let himself be led toward the door.

Sam put a hand out and moved a magazine to one side politely. His eyes caught the title of the publication and he held it up at Frost. She noticed and stopped dead, Dean pushed to a halt too.

"_Men's Fitness_?" Sam inquired with a knowing smile.

"Oh. That's not mine," she said stiffly. She caught Dean looking at her from the corner of her eye and looked back at him, her best poker face at work. She turned back to Sam. "Just put it over there with the _For Women_ magazines." She paused. "Oh. That are… _also_ not mine."

Dean continued to look at her, one decidedly approving eyebrow raised. "You have porn mags - for _girls_?"

She pulled on his arm without a word and all at once they were out of the room. She let go of him to walk down the stairs, keeping her face averted. He simply followed and they went back into the kitchen, but as they rounded the jamb she noticed him still smiling in a concerted effort to look only half as appreciative of her hobbies as he obviously felt. She shook her head, watching Dean pick up his coffee and down half of it without thinking.

"So, ah… Where's John?" she asked gingerly.

Dean swallowed his coffee and put the mug down as if he had all the time in the world. He moved down the counter and opened the lid of the now-cold pizza box, looking inside.

"He died," he said easily. He put his hand in and lifted out a slice of pizza, sniffing it suspiciously before taking a bite.

"Aw shit," she said heavily. "I'm sorry, Dean. I kinda missed him after you lot blew out of town."

He looked at the pizza, his face falling, and then dropped the rest of the slice back into the box. "Yeah," he allowed.

There was a creak from above and then Sam's voice floated down the stairs: "Chief? You got Neal's file here?"

She looked over at the open door. "Damn," she muttered. "No! Left it at the station!" she called.

Sam's much quieter response was lost on its way down the stairs, but Dean could well imagine what it had been.

He felt in his pocket for his keys. "We'll go get it!" he called.

"I'm perfectly capable of retrieving a file," Frost tutted.

"I know," he said lightly. "But if I have to stand around waitin' for something to do, I'm gonna go nuts," he added with a weary half-smile.

"Let me get my station keys then," she said, aiming for the door.

He stood back to let her through the doorway but she walked straight toward him. She watched his face as she stopped square-on to him, putting her hand out and past his side. His right arm moved out slightly to give hers room, and he watched her, his face impassive from six inches away, as she took the keys from the counter behind. He heard the jingle of keys behind his back but she didn't withdraw her hand. He waited.

And waited.

"Got them?" he asked.

"Got them," she confirmed.

They looked at each other for a long, telling moment.

_Is she getting closer__?_ Dean wondered - surprised at his own hopeful response to that thought.

_Is it me or is it warm in here__?_ Frost stared at the green gaze, apparently mirroring a kind of casual enthusiasm.

_Just another few inches_, Dean realised. _Do it_.

_He's so close... I could do it_--

There was a slight creak from the staircase.

"Ok then!" Dean said brightly.

She stepped back from him quickly. "Yeah," she said hastily, looking at her feet.

"Yeah," he nodded, turning to go. She pushed at his back to get him out of the kitchen.

.

* * *

.

She walked into the station, nodding to officers left and right who raised a hand in a friendly acknowledgement. Dean put his hands in his pockets, wandering after her and trying not to be freaked out by how many people looked him up and down as if she had just arrested him.

She led the way round to her office, producing keys and unlocking it before opening the door and going in. He followed, closing the door quietly behind him and looking round.

"Can I ask a question?" he havered, appraising the apparently haphazard arrangement of stacks of manilla card folders.

"You just did," she said, pre-occupied, as she bent over her desk, moving files and papers out of the way.

"Right. I'm gonna go for the '_ask one, get one free_' arrangement. Why does this place always look like James Bond's just been chased through it?" he wondered, moseying over toward the bookshelves and checking some of the names on the spines.

"Because we're case workers and detectives, not filers," she tutted. "Ah. Here it is." She pulled the file out as he ambled to the desk, his face a picture of surprise.

"You found it in all that?" he teased. She straightened and her elbow brushed his forearm. For the barest second she thought it tingled.

"Ah - yeah," she managed, clearing her throat. She let a thousand thoughts chase through her head and then perceived he was moving. He simply turned to look at her square-on, and she realised she had lost track of time again.

"So look… ah… Chief," he said quietly.

She bit her lip. "A long time ago… you used to call me Nara," she dared.

"Yeah - what's with that?" he asked suddenly. "James called you 'Jo' at the front door, then 'Nara' in the kitchen - when I thought he was talking to his wife. So which is it, Jo or Nara?"

She smiled. "My name is Joanna. Everyone just called me Nara - everyone. Then I went away to college abroad and I got into the habit of answering to Joanna again - and then Jo. When I came back here, I became Jo. No-one's called me Nara in a very long time," she allowed. "James only did it when… when he was trying to be my friend."

"Right," he nodded uneasily. "Ah… Well…" He put a hand up and scratched his head slightly. "It's like this. We both know I kinda…" He blew out a sigh, looking at the ceiling. "Ok, fine. We both know I didn't want to leave you behind - like twenty years ago. I was eight, ok, and there were lots of reasons--"

"Nearly nine," she winked.

"Yeah, and - and… and it's been a surprise meetin' up with you again, and like… Well you're still this really cool, real - uhm - amazing-lookin'--. And _man_, you smell good." He paused, swallowing quickly as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Uh, so, any other day of the week, I'd be in like Flint. But there's bigger things going on, and I think maybe--"

"--Maybe we should concentrate on one thing at once?" she finished for him, not caring if her face showed her disappointment. He searched her eyes in silence. She waited and eventually his mouth hesitated open slowly.

"Yeah," came his heavy admission.

"Right," she nodded.

She sighed in resignation, putting her hand to his ample bicep, appreciating it as she let her gaze wander over the sleeve slowly.

He felt her hand on his arm tickle in a _good_ way. He made himself concentrate. "So we're agreed then?" he managed, wondering why certain parts of him were doing their best to show all concerned they were voting 'no'.

She looked up at him slowly. "Agreed," she nodded.

He ran a tongue over dry lips quickly, clearing his throat. He looked down at the cluttered desk next to them, then over and around the room with complete and utter nonchalance.

"Or… ah… we could just use this desk right now?" he offered casually.

"You read my mind!" she grinned, so fast it came out as one word.

They turned and swept everything off it.

.

.


	15. Head Over Heels?

**FIFTEEN**

**Head Over Heels?**

.

.

Sam got up slowly, stretching his back and sniffing. He picked up his phone from beside the laptop and found Dean's number. The line connected, ringing loudly in his ear. He reached over and turned off the laptop, holding the phone to his ear as he leaned over and pulled the internet cable free from the back.

The line clicked at last and he opened his mouth. His brother spoke first.

"_Hey, this is Dean. I'm busy. Do the message thing_."

Sam closed his mouth and looked at the phone. He heard the beep and quickly pressed it back to his head.

"Dean, it's me. Still waitin' on that file," he grumped. "Anyway, I have an idea who might have started all this off. I'll catch up with you at the station. Oh, ah - I'm taking the chief's car, hope she doesn't mind. We can swap cars so you and me can get on back to the motel."

He pressed the button and cut the line, shaking his head and getting all his things together. He hefted his duffle onto his shoulder and made his way out downstairs, snagging her car keys from the kitchen counter as he went. He flew out of the house, locking the front door firmly and finding the BMW parked at the kerb still.

The drive was short and uneventful, which was lucky as he'd mostly been thinking about the names he had found, and not what was happening on the streets at nearly ten at night. He pulled into the parking lot and slid the BMW into Park by the Impala, not far from the front doors. He grabbed up his duffle and got out, locking it up quickly and walking inside.

He got some strange looks as he wandered up to and disappeared round the snaking corridor to the chief's office so late at night. He followed it down and stopped at the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and barrelled in.

He stopped dead, unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

"What the hell is this!"

Books, files and papers were all over the floor, the office chair far away from the desk, up against the bookshelf. Pencils and stationery organisers were similarly scattered over the wooden flooring and Sam quickly went to the desk, putting his duffle on it and surveying the carnage.

"Dean!" he demanded, the first prickle of fright running up his spine. "Chief!" He got no response and whipped out his phone, finding the requisite number and pressing the phone to his ear as he looked around more carefully.

The phone rang. It clicked.

"Yeah'ello," came Dean's amused voice.

"Holy crap," he breathed heavily in relief. "You alright, man?"

"Oh, apparently I'm _good_," came the very sly, very satisfied-sounding remark, and Sam frowned.

"Well where are you? I'm in the Chief's office - I think someone's been in here, rifling through files. The place is a mess. Well, more than usual," he amended quickly.

"Don't panic. I'm at the coffee machine. Nara's… somewhere around," he added gingerly. "We'll be right back."

"You should see the state of this place, Dean," Sam moaned. "It's going to take hours to find Neal's file in all this!"

"Top drawer, on the left," Dean replied. The line was unceremoniously cut.

Sam looked at the phone in confusion, then put it in his pocket and went to the desk. He stepped over and around the pencils and staplers, notes and papers. He opened the top drawer and found the brown card file with Neal Perry's name on it.

He picked it up and opened it, reading slowly. He flicked to the next loose-leaf sheet, his eyes skimming down names.

He heard the door open behind him and turned quickly. "Chief," he said gratefully. He took in her hair scraped back in a lazy ponytail, the perfect make-up that did not quite cover the red flush to her cheeks or the energetic bounce to her step. "Uh - this wasn't me," he said abruptly, indicating the mess.

"I know," she allowed with a small shrug, walking in and toward the desk. She bent down, starting to pick things up. She pushed through the papers until she found the fallen ancient Apple laptop and sighed. "Well, it was worth it," she heaved to herself, sliding the obviously kaput machine on the desk by her head.

Dean appeared in the doorway, two coffees in a totem pole in one hand and a single coffee without a lid in the other. He walked right up without a word, putting them on the desk and picking up the top one, turning to Sam with it.

"Well?" he asked, without even a flicker of surprise at the mess around them.

"Looks like someone's broken in," Sam said quickly, taking the cup but putting it down immediately. "I think someone's been looking for files."

"No-one's broken in," Frost said with a very tiny expression of amusement, as Dean crouched down and started to collect up papers too. She sniffed to herself. "I had an accident."

Dean's head came up as he continued collecting. "An _accident_?" he prompted.

"Ok, no, I meant to do it," she allowed, her face straight, her pony tail swishing about as she looked back at the papers on the floor resolutely. "I really, _really_ meant to do it."

Sam just looked at her, lost. "Whatever. Look, I've just been looking through Neal's file and I need help with some family history," he said decisively. "Has anyone ever looked back through Hannah Barrington's line?"

Frost looked up with curiosity. "No. You are supposed to when someone wants in, but cos she's Peter Barrington's girl - was - she was let off that formality."

"Who's Peter Barrington?" Dean asked, with a definite look indicating complete and utter cluelessness.

"He was a pretty important guy till he died in '87," she said, off-hand. "He was a police officer - on his way to becoming the next chief of police. I only knew him through photos and legend. Kind of funny, when I think about it."

"What is?" Sam asked, intrigued. He was already opening up his bag and retrieving his laptop.

"Well… old man Barrington married Daniel Watts' daughter - Daniel was a bit odd but a good cop," she paused, looking over at the elder Winchester. "Dean, he was the guy, Officer Watts, that questioned us that night."

Dean straightened slowly, thinking hard. "Don't remember him," he muttered, still mulling it over.

"You told him you two were Robin Hood and Little John," she supplied, but he still appeared blank. "Don't worry about it - it was a long time ago."

Sam opened the laptop and willed it to start up faster than it had ever done. Dean looked over at it but then at Frost again.

"So Peter Barrington died in 1987?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," she nodded. She noticed the way he was biting his lip, watching the laptop finish booting up and forgot about the mess in the office. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"How did Peter Barrington die?" Sam countered eagerly.

"Uh… y'know, I don't remember," she muttered, thinking.

Dean looked at Sam, just as the younger sibling clapped his hands together.

"What?" Dean asked quickly. Sam looked at him proudly.

"It's all in the patterns," he said grandly. "Look at this."

Dean and Frost walked round and leaned in from Sam's left side, pushing to see the screen. Sam shifted over and put his hand out to scroll down the screen slowly.

"Right, see this?" Sam asked, pointing at the diagram on display.

"Hannah Barrington's family tree," Frost muttered, reading. "Dad: Peter, Mom: Susan Watts - daughter of Daniel Watts, like I said," she nodded. "So?"

"So…" Sam put a hand out and scrolled up again. "So Daniel Watts was married to Caitlin Gallagher."

"Is she supposed to be important?" Frost shrugged. Sam looked at her for a long second with apparent disbelief.

"Everywhere I look in the records of this town, there's the name Gallagher," he said patiently. "The family moved in from somewhere never named - possibly Ireland. There were three daughters - Caitlin was the oldest, she married Daniel Watts. Their daughter married Peter Barrington, and _his_ daughter was your friend Hannah."

"Right, so?" Frost asked, lost. She cast a quick glance at Dean and found him reading the screen as if hoping it could predict the future.

"So Hannah's grandfather was Officer Daniel Watts. Her uncle was Parker Watts," Sam added.

"Oh, I knew Parker," she chipped in. "He was about my age, a really cool kid as I remember. But he died in--"

"1987," Dean read suddenly. "This is starting to sound like a family tree massacre from the eighties," he shivered.

"Is it ever," Sam said heavily. "When you find out that Hannah's grandmother had two sisters. The first was Colinda - who married into the Perry family. Guess who their grandson was?"

"Neal," Frost whispered.

"Oh yeah. And then there was the other sister - the youngest, Bronwen, who married Shaun Harrison. Guess who _her_ son was?"

"James!" Frost gasped, without even looking at the screen. "Bronwen! I really liked his mom. Until she passed away in 1990," she added.

"Woah woah woah," Dean interrupted suddenly. He slid in between Frost and the laptop, reading carefully. Frost stepped back, tossing a 'typical' look at Sam that he caught and smiled at. "So these three Gallagher sisters are basically two grannies and one mother of all three deceased? And their first-borns all died in 1987?"

"Yup," Sam shrugged.

"Ho-ly crap," Dean muttered. He straightened quickly, turning on Sam. He found himself pressed up against Frost and she stepped backward quickly. Dean made a polite attempt to move out of her way in a small weaving manoeuvre that Sam recognised as either embarrassment or professional lying.

" 'Scuze me," Frost managed, amused. Sam had a moment to find it odd. Then Dean was in his face again.

"The first wave get ganked in 1987," he said. "Now twenty-two years later the next wave of kids gets chomped on? Someone's working some real heavy-duty cursing on these sisters' lines, and using zombies to do the dirty work."

"You reckon?" Sam asked, mystified. "Why? Cos they came in like a triumvirate, trying to take over the town?" he added facetiously.

"I…" Dean struggled with something, then just sighed and let it all out wearily, "got nothing."

Sam tutted but Dean's face turned a little annoyed.

"So why don't you get down to the Records Office and find out," Dean offered. Then he yawned.

"In the morning," Sam allowed, looking at his watch. "They're probably closed. And I _am_ kinda tired."

"I'm all shades o' shagged out myself," Dean sniffed, with a casual look at Frost. "We'll get back to the motel. Call me-- _us_ if you need anything," he nodded.

"I will," Frost said innocently.

Sam nodded to her, closing up the laptop and putting it back in his duffle. He looked up to see Frost's hand on Dean's arm.

"It was really, really good to find out who you two both really are today," she said warmly. "And I think we got a few things straight," she added, looking at Dean. "I really enjoyed it. We should definitely do it again."

"Absolutely," Dean nodded seriously. "After all, we'll be here till this whole thing is solved and we've found the cause of all this."

"Good," she said, displaying a wide smile. She let go of Dean's arm to walk round him. "Hey Sammy-Sam-Samuel, get some rest. You're even cleverer now than you were twenty-two years ago." She put her arms round him and he was surprised by her warm hug.

"Oh, ah… thanks," he havered. He let her go and she stood back one. He picked up his bag and walked to the office door and out.

Dean waited until he was gone. Then he looked at Frost knowingly with a sly wink. She put her hand up and waggled her fingers at him as he continued to smile at her. He walked backwards to the exit, the dreamy grin still clinging to his face. He reached the door and then bumped into the wooden surround clumsily. He jumped and looked round at it, before swinging himself round. He put his hand on the doorknob as he grinned at her and swirled three hundred and sixty degrees to get out of the door.

She smiled to herself, then turned back to look at her desk.

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* * *

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By ten o'clock the next morning they were back in the Chief's office, ready to get facts straight before diving into public institutions for records. It was obvious a gargantuan tidying effort had gone on before their arrival, and the office was now barren of all folders, files and paperwork save the few flimsy manilla news keepers on her desk.

Frost was looking extremely presentable, and Sam found her black trouser suit and matching black silk blouse very striking. He noticed her boots remained scuffed and unpolished as he set his laptop on the desk for her to see.

"Right - so we know it's these three sisters that kicked it all off," he said. "So where do we start here? What am I looking for?"

Dean walked around behind her chair, leaning his knuckles on the wooden desk to lean over her shoulder slightly. He peered at the screen on Sam's laptop.

"Right. Sister number two married into the Perrys - and only Corey, Neal's father, is still alive," Dean nodded. "Someone's gotta go talk to _him_."

"Look at that," Frost said suddenly, pointing. "Cole Watts was the only surviving Watts from 1987."

"Well he's not now. Something's coming back to dot the 'i's and cross the 't's," Dean observed, straightening up. "We still need to know who crosses all three sisters' lines and who's controlling these zombies. Cos they ain't the thinking type, they're definitely just your basic, bottom-of-the-range worker drones." He moved to the desk by the side of Frost's chair, looking at Sam expectantly.

"What?" he asked.

"This is what you do best, Sammy, you know you do. Go hit the Records Office, dig us up some dirt on the old girls."

Sam eyed him for a long moment, his head tilting in calculation. Frost got up from her chair slowly, behind Dean's shoulder.

"What?" Dean asked curiously.

"What are _you_ going to do?" his younger brother asked with an open innocence that Dean saw right through.

"He's going to volunteer to open up all these old case files and see what happened here in 1987," Frost said over his taller shoulder.

Sam looked at her. "Really?" he smiled slyly.

"Really," Frost said firmly. "I shall make sure he finishes whatever he starts. I'm not letting him out of my sight until I'm totally satisfied."

Sam looked at the ceiling, apparently enjoying the vision in his head of Dean poring over mouldy hand-written police records. Frost took a handful of Dean's rear jeans pocket, squeezing slightly.

"So then!" Dean blurted quickly, and Sam looked at him. "Last one to find something buys the beer."

"Done," Sam nodded, whisking his duffle off the desk and heading to the door. He looked back over his shoulder as he opened it up. "The game is on. Get your wallet out, dude."

"Oh, it's out," Dean scoffed. "Sometimes you come second, sometimes you come first, sometimes it's a tie - but you dress for every game," he said with a wide, knowing grin.

"Riiiight," Sam allowed, confused. _I hope he's still talking about a wager._ He opened the door and disappeared. Dean walked up to the door and poked his head out quickly.

"Sam!" he called down the hallway.

He watched Sam's boot come back round the bend, followed by the rest of him. Dean fished in his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala.

"Don't get ma fenders bent," he warned. He tossed the keys into the air and Sam caught them.

"Would I?" he smiled. He turned and disappeared.

Dean watched him go. He felt something round his arm and he was yanked back into the room. A warm hand tilted his head round and down, and he found Frost's face comfortably close to his.

"Do you still think I'm an angel?" she teased.

"Hell no," he grinned, and she gasped in feigned shock. "I've known too many angels."

She grinned at the absurdity. "Whatever _that_ means," she breathed, sliding her hands down his front.

"Right. You take the first six months of 1987, I'll take the second half."

"Right now? Seriously?" she sighed, with a nod toward notable reluctance.

"Oh, as a blunt spade," he said pointedly. He cleared his throat. "Let's find something quickly so we can lock up the office and go out to play."

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	16. Or Heels Over Heads?

_**WARNING:**_

_This is the Steamy McSmutty chapter for the wannit-to-be-NC17 readers. Wey-hey!_

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* * *

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**SIXTEEN**

**Or Heels Over Heads?**

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Sam looked at his watch, found it nearly eight in the evening, and blinked. He rubbed his eyes briskly with the fingers of his left hand, wondering when he had eaten last. Looking back at the microfiche, he put his hand to the controls but suddenly the monitor blinked out. He reached over and touched the power button firmly, but there was no life at all. He pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the Records Office.

He stopped by the window to the assistant on duty, but the place appeared empty. He knocked on it politely and a girl came hurrying to the glass.

"Hi," he said cheerfully. "Um, I was just looking up a few old news stories, and the power went out on my microfiche."

The girl's face turned aggrieved. "Oh no, not another one," she moaned to herself. "I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to move to a new work station?"

"Ah… ok. Thanks," he managed.

"You can change to any one of the terminals on the other side," she added helpfully.

"Well, I'm nearly done," he said, watching the way she frowned at him, probably wondering just what he was doing there so late. He gave her a friendly nod before going back to his notebook and jacket. He sat slowly, looking down at the names and trying to think it through for the sixth time.

He gave up and sat back, slapping his notebook closed and collecting up all his things. He looked around, found the terminals far away across the room still flickering with dull standby power, and made his way over, running it through his head for the _seventh_ time.

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* * *

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Dean ran it through his head for the _seventh_ time, staring at the vinyl roof lining like it owed him a new carburettor. He had his left hand behind his head comfortably, and couldn't stop the huge sigh that pulled much-needed air deep into his lungs. He stretched his back and shoulders out with a satisfied yawn, his hand comfortable padding behind his head still.

Frost's mussed brunette head was in the crook of his left elbow, her eyes comfortably closed. She pulled in a deep breath, shifting closer against his left side on the rear seat as her left hand played idly with the fingers of his right. Their tangled fingers rested lightly where she knew there to be a six-pack hiding in the semi-darkness of the private car. She enjoyed the feel of his thumb running up and down the back of her hand in its rather pre-occupied fashion.

She opened her eyes, rubbing her chin against his skin slightly in thought. She let go of his fingers and slid her hand up his front with a slowness born of satisfaction. She moved her head back to better see his face. She stared, fascinated by the eyes that concentrated on the roof lining as if it contained a million answers.

She snuggled down warmer into the rather large checked shirt she had purloined from his pile of hastily shucked clothes.

"I love these big shirts," she breathed on a happy sigh. "They're all… warm and thick, strong and… and this one," she teased, lifting the collar to press it to her nose, "smells of you."

He blinked, aware someone was talking. "Well hey, I opened the window a crack," he said defensively, and she laughed out loud.

"And it did stop some of the windows steaming up," she allowed. "I meant the shirt smelling of you was a good thing," she chuckled.

"Oh. I knew that," he said dismissively, his eyes still on the roof.

"So… question time," she breathed nervously.

"Hmm?"

"Tattoos. You've seen my little rocket ship," she began carefully, then paused as he smiled slyly to himself.

"Have I. I never knew space went that far _down_."

She grinned. "So… this pentagram thing you've got here." She slipped her hand over him, stroking the inky marking gently. "Why, when, and who?"

Dean pulled in another deep breath, a horribly pained sigh leaving him slowly on the expulsion. "Defence. A lifetime ago - literally. And… some dude in a really, _really_ dark tattoo place."

"I like it," she smiled, leaning up and studying the flaming pattern around the never-ending five-pointed shape. "It's very… eternal."

He looked at her, his eyes dancing over her face with what she hoped she was correctly defining as appreciation.

"It serves a purpose," he breathed.

She kept her eyes locked on his, leaning up and pressing her lips to it softly. He smiled slightly and she giggled, sliding back down to his side. She let her smile die slowly.

"And the nasty burn you have on your shoulder? Are you going to explain that?"

He flicked his eyes to the roof lining again. Then his hand captured hers and brought it up to his chest, curling his fingers around it comfortably.

"That nasty mark, the one you don't want me to see," he breathed, and she closed her eyes. "Looks like a bullet wound. By your hip. Am I right?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now."

"There we go."

She opened her eyes and squeezed his fingers, making him look at her. "Yeah, I see your point. You can keep your burn that almost looks like a handprint, and I'll keep my old scar that almost looks like a bullet wound."

He let a small smile escape and she pulled her hand free of his, sliding it over him in appreciation. She paused, looking up at the amulet swinging slightly from its temporary vantagepoint above their heads, laced round the leather strap in the ceiling.

"And where did you get that?" she mused.

He took another deep breath, something that delighted her no end in that it caused his chest to rise and fall languidly, and let it out slowly. "Sam," he rumbled.

She tapped her palm against his front. "Talking of Sam," she sighed.

"What?"

She put an elbow under her to lean up so she could take in his face properly. "Are we to pretend we're not really shagging every time he goes off to do all the work on this case?"

"Woah woah woah," Dean protested, taking his hand from behind his head and putting his elbows under him. He hiked himself up and she pushed herself to sit, lest she land in the rear footwell. "I'm working," Dean said defensively.

"Really," she smiled, sitting back and folding her arms. "You're flat on your back."

"Maybe I do some of my best work on my back," he sniffed.

"Come to think of it, maybe you do," she winked, and he laughed abruptly, realising what he had just said. "And your heels. And your elbows."

He sat up, reaching for the black t-shirt hanging over the back of the driver's seat. She put her hand out and took it quickly, making him look at her.

"Why don't you want Sam to know?"

"It ain't that--"

"You don't, otherwise you would have said something before now, and we'd be at my place, not in the back of your car."

"What am I supposed to say?" he cried, but it was more a plea for help than an accusation. "'Hey Sam, catch up with you later, me and Nara are busy banging like a screen door in a hurricane'? He gets his boxers in a bunch if I so much as look at a beer while he thinks a big case is gettin' the better of him. I'm working too, just not in the way _he_ thinks is working, that's all," he added reasonably.

"Right," she allowed.

She looked down at the t-shirt in her hands. She threaded it through her fingers to produce a neat circle. She looked back at him, meeting his eyes, as she shuffled closer to him, leaning over to put the shirt on over his head. He put a hand up, catching at the t-shirt and bringing her and it to a stop.

"Besides, I can multi-task," he said seriously. He pulled the garment out of her hands, tossing it to the front seat again.

"So you're working right now?" she grinned, leaning her face close enough to make out the freckles over the bridge of his nose in the dim light.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, his hand reaching up to sweep her chestnut hair to one side gently. "For example, why was Neal's dad the only survivor in 1987?"

"I don't--"

He kissed her. She forgot any sentence she may have had ready. She smiled as he lifted his lips from hers, looking at her.

"And why come back now, twenty-two years later, and gank the descendants?" His hand slid to her lower back, pulling to bring her closer.

"Maybe," she managed, trying to prove that she, too, were capable of more than one train of thought at once, "maybe the curse involved killing children of the Thirteen."

His eyes ran down her face before his chin reached out for her again. Suddenly he stopped dead, looking at her strangely for a long moment.

"What?" she dared.

"The children - getting killed," he echoed. "It's not about the Thirteen getting ganked, otherwise someone would be after _everyone_ left like Cole, not just his wife Annette - and Neal wasn't even _in_ the Thirteen," he pointed out. "It's not about Wiccans or witches or covens or Thirteens at all…"

"How do you work that out?" she asked, surprised.

"These Gallagher sisters," Dean gasped, his eyes darting to the roof of the Impala quickly. "Sam said they came in from somewhere else - maybe Ireland?"

"It's possible - they were the ones who supposedly brought Wicca to our little town," she shrugged.

"And they just happen to arrive in a strange village, marry three guys within a year of each other, and start up some new pagan thing?"

"Yeah. Although, from Sam's diagram, Caitlin was Daniel Watt's second wife," she shrugged.

"So what happened to the _first_ wife?" Dean demanded. "Was she divorced or murdered?"

"Dean," she tutted.

Dean leaned into her suddenly and she grabbed hold of him to prevent being pushed onto her back.

"What?" she gasped.

Dean grunted and stretched, and then leant back with his phone in his hand. He wedged it open with his thumb quickly.

"We been looking at this all wrong," he tutted, apparently disgusted. He slapped the phone to his ear and she wobbled, falling against him. The line clicked and she watched him avidly from a foot away as he slid his eyes to hers. "Sam?" he demanded.

"Dean - we've been looking at this all wrong," Sam blurted.

"Don't I know it. You thinkin' it's something to do with the missing first wife? The one Watts married _before_ Caitlin Gallagher?" he asked, watching Frost's eyes turn serious, impatient.

"I just found her name in the records like ten minutes ago," Sam admitted, surprised.

Dean's attention was torn between Sam's urgent tone and Frost's proximity. "Uh… Nara mentioned Caitlin wasn't - ah - wasn't the first wife. So who was? Was she ganked? Is it her?"

"That's what I'm checking now," Sam replied, "And… here we are. --Holy crap!" he blurted suddenly.

"Whut?" Dean managed. Frost leaned her head in against the back of the phone, and Dean turned it slightly so she could hear.

"The first wife was called Amy," Sam said quickly. Dean's gaze ran over the side of Frost's face with intent. "But guess whose sister she was?" Sam's voice interrupted.

"Elvis?" Dean rumbled, feeling he knew exactly how far away Frost's skin was to the millimetre.

"Ryan Perry!" Sam cried, sounding victorious. "Neal Perry's grandfather. I'm willing to lay odds he put some kind of curse on the Gallagher family."

"Super. Do you think Neal's dad knows?" Dean managed against the feeling of warmth pressed against him. He bit his lip as Frost shifted, pulling her head from the phone. She realised she was being watched and smiled slightly.

"Maybe," Sam mused. "Hey, you think the Chief could get us in to see him? Where is she anyway? She hasn't left you alone with nothing but dusty files, has she?" he grinned, and Dean heard the malicious enjoyment in his voice.

"Are you kidding? She's been on me most of the evening."

Frost's eyes went round and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Dean winked at her with a slyness that brought heat to her face.

"Sounds terrible," Sam grinned.

"What can I say, she gives as good as she gets."

Frost lifted her balled hand and whacked him hard in the chest. Dean let out a definite _oof!_ of a wheezy grunt.

"You ok?" Sam asked, his voice a clear study in confusion.

"Yeah, just… walked into the edge of the table," he managed, eyeing Frost with mock-disapproval.

"Right. Well get your stuff together and find the Chief. We have to go visit Neal's dad, Corey Perry."

"Wait till morning - it's nearly…" He lifted his other wrist to check: "nine o'clock, dude."

"Yeah… Kinda lost track of time there," Sam realised.

"You and me both," Dean admitted, letting his hand land on her shoulder in his checked shirt. She slid a hand up his shoulder, grinning evilly.

"So I'll meet you back at the motel? Get us some food," Sam added.

"Ok," Dean agreed, but his attention was already on the way his hand had slid down her arm and pushed inside the shirt over her side, pulling her against him. She slid her hands along his shoulders, up his neck and to his face.

"Say hi to the Chief for me," came Sam's malicious after-thought.

Frost's face hovered close to Dean's. She reached out with her chin.

"Will do," Dean managed into the phone.

He snapped it closed and tossed it in the vague direction of the front seat carelessly. It flipped end over end in a very impressive somersault, landing square in the driver's seat as Frost grabbed his mouth with hers. He pushed the shirt off over her shoulders, letting it fall to the vinyl behind her. He fought back against her mouth, turning her slowly, lowering her to the rear seat.

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* * *

_**Oh it's all fun and games till someone loses track of time... right?**_


	17. Angrier By A Head

_**You've had the smut, now deal with the angst…**_

* * *

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**SEVENTEEN**

**Angrier By A Head**

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Sam flicked through the channels and then thumbed off the television set, huffing to himself. He looked at his watch, found it just after one in the morning, and slapped the remote down on the bedside table.

He pushed himself off the bed and went into the bathroom, relieving himself of the evening's mineral water and brushing his teeth. He watched his eyes in the mirror, noticing how dark and troubled they looked in the odd artificial light.

He pulled the toothbrush free of his mouth and pointed it at his reflection accusingly.

"You know where he is, don't you?" he demanded angrily, the toothpaste muffling his words slightly. "He's with the chief of police, the one he said he would never think of banging. They're in her office right now, doing the McNasty while I stand here brushing my goddamned teeth."

He huffed, plunging the brush back in his mouth and scrubbing away with purpose for a long minute.

"I wouldn't mind," he managed, pulling the brush out again and waving it around, "but he's supposed to be _working_. It's like he sniffs some skirt and he's off like a goddamned greyhound." He pushed the brush back in, working it angrily over his pearly-white arsenal. "Why he couldn't just wait till after this is over, I don't know."

_But you do_, a little voice in his head told him snidely. _You know exactly how it feels to have a girl right in front of you and you're completely unable to say no. Except he has no moral, personal or ethical reason to refuse, does he? Not like you did. Not like you should have done. He's just taking the good times where he finds them. And you're just annoyed that he got in there before you did. Face it, if he hadn't gotten there first, you would have made a move_.

He fumed at himself. He heard the motel door open and close and spat out the toothpaste quickly, picking up the glass and filling it.

"Hey, Sasquatch," came his brother's cheerful voice from the room outside.

Sam swilled his mouth out repeatedly, firing the used water at the sink with annoyance. He wiped his chin with the small towel and walked out of the bathroom, eyeing the upbeat way his elder brother pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of the wooden chair by the door.

"I'm surprised you can still walk," Sam said tartly.

Dean turned and looked at him, and Sam had to admit, he did look innocent.

"What's that supposed to--"

"I know what's going on here, Dean!" Sam exploded. "While I'm running around actually _working_, you're screwing that police chief and thinking I'm too stupid to notice!"

Dean's mouth opened and then closed again. Sam huffed, pouting at him in annoyance.

Dean's mouth tried again. "Weh - ahh, look, it's not what you th--"

"I don't want to know!" Sam shouted, giving both his eyes and anger free rein to bore into his older sibling without mercy.

"Now just hold on there, _Sam_," Dean said, and Sam heard the ire fighting its way to the surface. "Yeah, alright, I was with Nara. And yeah, alright, we weren't _only_ workin'."

"Dean!"

"Just back up a minute!" Dean shot back hotly.

But Sam's anger was stronger than his fascination for the truth. "Yeah - right! I'll just lay off for a minute while you go bang that girl you thought murdered everyone in the first place!"

"Sam," Dean warned heavily, but his younger brother advanced on him.

"_No_, Dean! _No_! What is this, Bang A Cop Week? Single entry all-you-can-eat buffet?"

"You stop right there," Dean threatened with baleful conviction.

"Why? Cos she's got great tits and a nice ass and you've never had a bit of _precinct soil_?"

Dean's fist flashed up and slammed into Sam's face. Caught by surprise, the younger Winchester stumbled and landed on the carpet with a dull smack.

His head reeling, Sam slapped a hand to his chin, massaging and feeling something wet on his lip. He made himself climb down from stunned and let the smarting subside as he looked at the boots standing near his outstretched legs.

The boots turned away suddenly with a heavy "_Goddamn!_" that had been hissed like it burned. Sam looked up and saw Dean cross the few feet to the side table. He shoved at everything on it and it all went off the side with a huge crash, making Sam jump. He brought his knees up and got to his feet as Dean looked around the room angrily, as if searching for something to kick.

He found himself close to the front door and turned swiftly, driving his right fist into it with all his weight. The door bounced and gave slightly, preventing his jab from going straight through. Instead he pulled his hand back, hissing and swearing at the pain and stupidity of what he had just done.

"Woah," Sam breathed, putting his hands out in a placating gesture.

Dean didn't look at him, still breathing fast and ready to kill something. He shook his hand out, spitting cruel epithets at the pain in his knuckles.

Sam swallowed. "Look, calm down."

"_I am calm!_" Dean raged, his voice wrathfully thick. He turned and pointed at Sam accusingly. "I _am_ calm! But you're getting shitty over something you know _nothing about_!" he bellowed.

Sam took a step back. "Ok," he allowed, nodding, and Dean let his hand drop. "Alright… Obviously there's more going on here than I thought," he said quickly.

"You're damn right there is! So stop lookin' at me like I'm only here to pick up police chiefs! I'm workin', ain't I!"

"In between picking up police chiefs," Sam said brightly. Dean looked at him with murderous intent and Sam took a deep breath.

"See? This is exactly why I didn't tell you, Sam!" Dean snapped. "I _knew_ you'd be like this!"

"Hey, don't get pissy with _me_," Sam protested. "I'm not the one wasting time with--"

Dean took definite steps toward him, but this time Sam was ready. He squared up to his big brother, his eyes daring him to make a move.

"You really want to do this?" Sam said firmly, hoping against hope that it was not going to come to blows. _He's heavier than me_.

Dean's eyes studied his for a long moment. He ran a tongue over his lip, looking down suddenly and backing away.

"No," he admitted, but his voice was still hard enough to dent the bonnet of the Impala if wielded correctly. "No."

Sam watched Dean wander back and plonk himself on the bed heavily, fascinated despite himself. "So explain what's so important you're trying to lay me out over it," the younger man demanded.

"Look… just stop talking at me, alright? Just… shut up for one goddamn second!" Dean cried angrily, and Sam noticed the discomfort in the colour to his cheeks. His fascination suddenly deepened.

"I don't get it. So you boinked her - that's it right? Same as usual," Sam shrugged, trying to keep his tone even.

Dean didn't look at him. He wiped the fingers of his left hand over his forehead slowly and with intent, before letting them drop to his knee.

"Yep. Same as usual," he said quietly.

Sam heard the reluctance, the heavy guilt, and his anger started to break down into curiosity and that strange feeling of his boots shouting at him that he hadn't realised he had been on thin ice for the last few minutes.

_Usual my ass_, he realised. "Tell me," he instructed clearly.

Dean kept his eyes anywhere but in Sam's direction. "Tell you _what_?" he demanded angrily. "There's nuthin' to tell." He leant his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. He looked at the blank television screen and the room was silent for a whole minute. "There's just… nothing to tell."

Sam looked at the television, seeing the reflection of the bleak look on his brother's face. Coupled with the way he kept his shoulders toward his younger brother, it spoke the volumes that could not be voiced.

"Oh," Sam guessed abruptly, and the rest of his anger was booted in the arse by the sudden and damning evidence that this was not just another of his brother's one night stand scenarios. "And?" he dared.

"And… she's like…" His voice trailed off in raging discomfort. "Look," he said suddenly, turning and looking at Sam with outrage, "where do you get off lecturing me on who I sleep with? Last time I asked, you were banging demons!"

"It's just… I thought you two were working, that's all," Sam admitted.

"Hey, I got two halves in my brain, right? I can do two things at once," he protested. "That's why I called you - I thought up the whole Caitlin-murders-the-first-wife thing, remember?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, biting his lip. "Dean…" He sighed heavily. "I'm not trying to judge you, I'm just asking… How far does this thing go?"

"What thing?" he demanded, pinning him with a look that would have defrosted and nuked several gas station burgers.

"Chief Frost. I mean Nara," Sam corrected. "Cos like… hooking up with someone you had a schoolboy crush on is… well, don't you think it's creepy?"

Dean's mouth hung open slightly and he stood, turning and staring at Sam in disbelief. "Wow, you think you know all about me and Nara from 1987, _don't you_?" he shouted, his face set in an accusatory John Winchester stare that made Sam wince on the inside. "So you'd _know_ back then I wanted her to stay so you'd grow up with someone like Mom in your life!" Dean continued angrily.

"And now? Do I still need a nursemaid?"

"Well you ain't listening to me any more, and you just fold every time a girl flutters her eyelashes and begs for your help!" Dean raged. "So yeah, I'd say you friggin' _do_ need a nursemaid!"

"So you're just banging the hired help?" Sam shot back. "Is it cos she's something special or just cos she's _available_ and _female_?"

"Again with the demon-banging history in your _face_, Sam! Or is it that she's not a goddamned werewolf!"

"Below the belt, dude!" Sam accused.

"Oh really?" Dean snapped back. "Since when have I done anything that wasn't _human_? 'Least I can stick to my own friggin' species!"

"Anna--" Sam began snidely.

Dean was in Sam's face before he could blink. A hand grasped roughly at the younger Winchester's shirt front and they stared at each other with mere inches between their reddened faces.

"Get your facts straight. And while you're doing that, take the opportunity to _leave me alone_," Dean breathed dangerously.

Sam studied his brother's face, sensing perhaps now was not the time to push things. "Ok, alright, ok," he said lightly.

Silence lifted huge hands and stepped in between them, shoving their wills to argue back a step with commanding roughness. The Winchesters stared at each other with eyes all at once the same, yet completely at odds. Silence maintained the space between the combatants, checking the looks on their faces and assessing the adrenaline levels before deciding the fighters were done for the moment. It let its hands drop and slid away, retreating but watching, in case it would be needed again.

Dean let go of his baby brother's shirt, standing back and wiping his hand over his chin wearily. He backed away and plonked himself back down on the bed.

"To answer your question," he said clearly, in a patented lecturing voice Sam had heard many times when his older brother took it upon himself to correct any one of a million of what he thought to be Sam's misconceptions, "Nara is…" He paused, running his hand over his eyes this time. "Well what can I say, she's just another chick," he finished unctuously.

But he let the hand drop from his eyes and Sam was pinched into complete shock by the little-boy-lost expression of heart-break on his elder brother's face. Immediately it was gone, safely covered by the usual stoicly annoyed face Sam found irritating. Suddenly he realised what it meant, even the unexplained anger.

_But she's not just another chick, is she?_ Sam sighed. "So… She's like… important?" he dared. "To… ah… you?"

Dean didn't answer, didn't react, and Sam's eyebrows reformed themselves into patent gestures of sympathy, trying to shift onto the side of detached understanding and failing miserably.

"You know we're ah… we're leaving when this is done, right?" he added quietly.

"I don't believe we're having this conversation," Dean protested, getting up and heading for the bathroom. Sam caught his elbow.

"Hey," he said sharply into his older brother's face. "Look… Just… Don't let her get in there, ok? Like Anna did."

"Aw Sam," he protested in disgust, yanking his arm free. "Don't start with this!"

"Dean, I'm just--"

"Well go '_just_' someplace else," he snapped. He carried on into the bathroom, slamming the door smartly.

Sam took a deep breath and watched the door for a moment. He turned back to his bed and let out a huge sigh, not sure with whom he was angrier, himself or his brother.

.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for all your reviews and comments! It means a lot to me that people actually read my crap, and then take the time to leave a note about it. THANK YOU!**_


	18. Butting Heads

**EIGHTEEN**

**Butting Heads**

.

It was nearly ten in the morning before Sam and Dean arrived at the station, jeans and t-shirts clean and respectable.

"Oh, Agent Peart," came the bouncy greeting from the young brunette on the outer desk. "Almost didn't recognise you in civvies. Day off?"

"Kinda," Sam allowed. "We're here to see the Chief?"

"Of course, she's expecting you," she smiled, tipping her finger at him and turning to lead the way. Sam felt a nudge in his back from his brother and looked at him. Dean gestured to the girl with his eyes and Sam sighed, shaking his head and following.

They disappeared down the zig-zag corridor and she stopped them at the door to the Chief's office. She knocked smartly and waited.

"Come," came the answering call.

"In you go," the girl said politely with a smile for Sam alone, opening the door and waiting for them to get inside before closing it.

Sam looked over at the Chief, finding her with her left elbow on the desk, the phone in her left hand and her right beckoning them in. Sam wandered in and Dean caught up with him, taking the first wooden seat by the desk. Sam sat more slowly, interested in the phone call.

"Yes, sir. I'm aware of that," she said crisply, looking up and making eye contact with Dean. Her face didn't change before she shifted her look to Sam, nodding slightly. "Yes, sir. Of course," she said tonelessly, but nevertheless just a shade or too less than a snap. "Then I'll make sure I copy it to the other desk too, sir. Can I make sure I have your name spelt correctly?"

She moved the phone to her right hand quickly, reaching over and snatching up a pencil with her left, moving her pad round to scribble something down.

"Absolutely, sir. Thanks again. We really do appreciate your leniency." She rolled her eyes and slammed the phone down with a force that made the two boys jump. She left her hand on the receiver, blowing out an angry huff. "Twat," she snapped, and if hatred and frustration had been shades of paint, she would have had enough to completely re-spray the Impala.

"Trouble?" Sam asked politely.

"Only the FBI - the _real_ FBI," she grumbled. She took her hand off the receiver, sliding the pencil to the desk and sitting back in her chair. "Right, so what are we doing today?"

"Corey Perry," Dean supplied. "We're supposed to be talking to him about possible laying-on of curses."

"Oh yeah," she said, rubbing her forehead suddenly.

"You ok?" Sam ventured.

"Peachy," she sighed. "Why the FBI wants all my notes and case reports so far on this very dodgy zombie case all of a sudden, I don't know."

"You want us to make something up?" Dean offered.

Sam just turned and looked at him. _Paperwork? He's _offering_ to do paperwork?_

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "There's two of us and one of her."

"Yes, isn't there," Sam said with just a slight edge.

Frost looked up gingerly. "Ok, what's your problem?" she asked politely.

"It's nothing," Dean said firmly. She moved her gaze to Dean, and they appeared to look at each other for a long moment, their faces set in serious determination.

"If you say so," she allowed, picking up her car keys and getting to her feet. "Shall we go talk to Corey Perry now?"

"Sounds good," both Winchesters said, before pausing to eye each other. Dean just raised his eyebrows and Sam tutted as they stood. He turned away and headed for the door.

Frost looked at Dean and he met her gaze. She raised both eyebrows and tilted her head. He pulled a dismissive frown, shaking his head and then jerking it at the door. She looked over at it but then looked back at him, worried. Dean shook his head again, this time less dismissive than sly, and put his hand out. He turned her shoulder round and gave her a gentle push in the right direction. She shrugged and followed Sam's lead out of the office.

.

* * *

.

Frost pulled up at the driveway, looking at the house. She killed the engine and waited, casting a look at the rear view mirror. She didn't have to wait long before a sleek black classic car pulled up behind her, her driver's face one of thunder and anger as he got out and squeaked the door shut.

She bit her lip on a sigh. "Oh Nara, what are you doing to yourself?" she breathed sadly. "You know he's leaving when this is done."

She let her eyes drop from the mirror as Dean turned and walked round the car to the pavement. She got out of the BMW quickly, locking it up and meeting the boys on the pavement.

"So. What's the plan, Batman?" she asked gamely, aware of Sam's polite half-smile. She could well imagine the discussion the boys had clearly just had.

Dean cast one last annoyed look at his brother before turning to her resolutely. "You keep him talking, me and Sam'll go through the place for anything telling us who or how this curse was laid down. Get him to talk about Wiccans if you can."

"Dean, I could get him to talk about leprechauns and pots of gold if you wanted," she said off-hand with a slight smile.

"Be careful," Sam said suddenly, and she paused. "If it was him that laid the curse, we could be targeted as easily as the others were."

"Oh trust me, I've done my fair share of dodgy interrogations," she allowed, turning and walking off.

Sam pushed past Dean with enough contact to make him stand back to catch his balance. The elder brother pouted in a way that would have put the fear of Winchester into just about any demon and took a deep breath. Then he looked up and followed them up the path to the front door.

Frost was already ringing the doorbell. They waited, and eventually the door opened a crack on a safety chain.

"Chief?" said a voice, old and worn.

"Yes, Mr Perry, it's me, Chief Frost," she said politely. "May I come in? I have two friends here, they'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Friends?"

"Uh, hey, Mr Perry," Sam said suddenly, nudging in front of his brother and the Chief. "We're with the _Fortean Times_, just doing an article on Wicca. Would you be able to spare us some time to talk about it?"

"Wicca? That ungodly filth?" he tutted, a single beady eye looking up at him. "Why should I know anything about that?"

"Uh - well - we thought we'd get a balanced view," Dean put in quickly. "We've gotten some good views on the positive side, we thought we'd need a non-believer to make the article more objective."

"Objective? You got that right," he grunted. "Boy, if you're willing to print what I got to say, you can even have coffee."

"Wow, thanks," Dean grinned childishly. Sam tutted at him and Frost looked at her feet as the chain on the door was removed slowly. The door was thrown open to reveal an elderly man watching them with slight distrust.

"Come on in, then. And wipe your feet." He sniffed and stood back.

Frost walked in first, followed by Dean. Corey Perry watched them go, but caught Sam's arm as he walked past him.

"You, boy. You get your tape recorder or your notebooks or whatevers and you make sure you get down everything I got to say, you hear me?" he grumped.

"Uh - yes sir," Sam nodded innocently. Perry released his arm and he followed the others into the hallway. Perry closed the front door. "Right. You can make yourselves comfortable in the front room. I'll just get us some coffee."

The three of them nodded and disappeared through a tall panelled door. The Chief was in first, finding the sofa but walking past it to look around the room. Dean went to the pictures on the mantelpiece over a large hearth, looking at the black and white photographs. Sam pulled out a dishevelled notebook and felt around in his pockets for something with which to write.

They heard the old man's footsteps go past the open door and down the hallway, and the brothers looked at each other.

"This is gonna be easy," Dean observed. "You get all the dirt from him. I'm going to get upstairs and see where he keeps his Wiccan stuff."

"You think _he's_ putting the curse on people?" Frost whispered. "He was never in the Thirteen - or anywhere near Wicca. You heard him, he hates it. There was a reason his son Neal hated witches too!"

"Well of course he did," Dean shot back. "Think about it - who better to get away with it than a non-believer, someone the entire community thinks wouldn't touch spellwork with a ten foot pole?"

"And not being in the Thirteen, he'd have to do it all himself," Sam nodded slowly. "But why his son?"

"Maybe he got it wrong," Frost gasped. "Spellwork isn't easy, and if you say the wrong word or use the wrong tools, you could seriously screw it up."

"You think he misspoke the words or read from the wrong book? He got that '_definitely an N word_' wrong?" Dean whispered.

Frost looked at him, then grinned. "You've seen '_Army of Darkness_' too many times," she chuckled. "But yeah, that's about it."

"So I'll go find the book or whatever he's hiding," Dean shrugged, heading for the door. Frost put her hand out and grabbed his arm.

"Wait - do you even know what you're looking for?" she whispered.

"Uh - well - kinda--"

"Thought not," she nodded. "I'll go. Out of the three of us, I'm the only one who actually _was_ a Wiccan."

"Fair enough," Dean shrugged.

The door was filled with the older man and a tray. "Sit yourselves down, then," he commanded, and the Winchesters backed away to the sofa. Frost stayed on her feet.

"Might I use your washroom?" she asked politely.

" 'Course. Up the stairs, second on the left," he said shortly.

"Thank you." She turned, winked at Dean, and left the room smartly. Corey Perry watched his two guests sit down, then set the tray of coffee and accoutrements on the side table.

"Now then," he said, sitting in his armchair and leaning forward, "just what kinda article are you boys writing? Where did you say you were from again?"

"The _Fortean Times_," Dean supplied helpfully. "We do like a four-page spread special sometimes, try to make sure we get the whole story."

"Right," Perry grumped. "Can't say as I've heard of it."

"Well it's got a circulation of barely ten thousand in the States," Sam put in, "but we like to think we bring a different kind of de-bunking reading to people who know what's real and what's not."

"Well son, you've come to the right place. I know all about them Wiccans and their devil-worshipping ways. My son, God rest his soul, got mixed up with of their kind, and Lord knows he did his best to bring the poor girl back to the right path, but in the end it was too much for even him."

"Your son - would that be Neal?" Sam asked gently.

"Yeah," Perry sighed. "My boy." He looked up and over to the mantelpiece, and the pictures there. "Good boy, he was. Just fell in love with the wrong girl."

"Yeah. That happens," Sam observed, an arched eyebrow at his brother.

Dean caught the look from the corner of his eye and turned his head to look at Sam. His face went from an innocent blankness to a bemused defensive grin that mocked his younger brother for such a ridiculous accusation.

Sam drew in a breath and looked back at Corey Perry. "So anyways, uhm, you said you knew all about bad Wiccans?"

.

* * *

.

Frost opened the door silently, poking her head in. She did a quick sweep of the room before tip-toeing in and taking a closer look at the bookshelves and titles thereon. She frowned as every title appeared to be something to do with hunting or fishing. She tutted and turned her attention to the collections of small rifle shells on the desk behind her.

Satisfied there was nothing spell-related in the study room, she made her way out and to the next door. She opened it to find a bedroom, and gave it a quick search, making sure she put everything away again. She was just opening the wardrobe and pulling over a chair to climb up and see what was on the top shelf when she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket.

She pulled it out and checked the name of the caller, smiling slightly as she flipped it open and put it to her ear.

"You got anything for me?" came Dean's hoarse whisper down the line.

"That depends. Are we talking about the case or off-duty playtime?"

She heard a slight noise that may have been a breathy grin.

"The case," Dean allowed, but there was a smile in his voice.

"Then no," she replied. "I can't find a single thing here that looks even vaguely Wiccan. Where are you?"

"Kitchen," Dean whispered. "Sam's giving him the third degree, but he sounds genuine. Looks like we hit wide of the mark, here."

"It does. I'm on my way down." She shut the phone and slipped it back in her pocket. She looked at the shelf anyway, found nothing but old '_Guns & Ammo_' magazines and gave up. She pulled the chair back to its original place, turning to go. She paused suddenly, looking at the photograph on the side table.

Two people - an older man standing with a young Corey Perry. She picked up the framed photo and turned it over. A child's hand-written scrawl covered the back, proclaiming '_Granddad the protector and Dad, his charge. 1980_'. She thought about it, then set it down again and turned for the door.

.

.


	19. Hearts vs Heads Home Game

**NINETEEN**

**Hearts v Heads (Home Game)**

.

"Thanks for all your time and information, Mr Perry," Sam said happily, reaching out with his hand.

Corey Perry took it firmly and shook it. "That's alright, son. Good to know I'm doing the public a favour, warning them about those evil Satanists," he nodded.

"Yeah. Thanks," Dean put in, with a look distinctly lacking in enthusiasm that appeared to bring a smile to Frost's face.

Corey Perry patted Sam on the arm and looked at Chief Frost. "You'll make sure these boys get home safe now, won't you?" he said lightly.

Her smile widened. "I will. Thanks for seeing us, Mr Perry."

"No trouble."

He walked with them out to the hall, waving them off as they walked down the path. He closed the front door as they paused between the parked cars, thinking.

"Well he was so full of crap I'm surprised he doesn't hum," Dean grunted.

"So now what?" Frost asked. "If it's not him, then I'm out of ideas."

Sam shrugged. "I hate to say it man, but so am I."

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair, pausing as it encountered the slight head wound caused by Annette's spade. "Well… We must be missing something."

"You keep saying that, but we've been over this a thousand times," Sam sighed.

"Don't hate me for saying this, but…" Frost began, then trailed off.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Well… I wish your dad were here. He might have known something we didn't. I mean, he was here in 1987."

Dean stared at her, his eyes wider and rounder, his mouth starting to open slowly.

"What?" she asked slowly. "What did I say?"

Sam looked at his brother and his eyebrows drew together like worried curtains. "What, man?"

"He _did_ know something we didn't," Dean gasped, fumbling for his keys and going to the driver's door of the Impala. He opened it and kneeled on the seat, reaching for the glovebox. Sam and Frost exchanged a lost look before Dean reappeared, John's journal in his hand.

"Why didn't we just look in here before?" He opened the journal and leafed through quickly. "'_Why do you write stuff down, Dad?_' I said. '_Cos one day you might want to read all about grey men_,' he said. '_You said they were zombies_,' I said. '_You never know when they might come back_,' he said," Dean said to himself, as if no-one else could hear him.

Sam and Frost just watched as Dean found something important and stopped leafing. He tutted in disgust, then looked up at Sam, clearing his throat.

"'_These zombies are under orders to kill, nothing more. Just got to find the person who cursed them in the first place, then I can undo it and everyone dead round here will stay dead_.'" Dean looked at Frost, then back down at the journal and read from it again. "'_I__ thought it was connected to the Thirteen here, but now I'm not so sure. Dean said he thought it was something to do with the first wife - Amy Watts. He thought one of the Irish sisters maybe killed her off so she could marry Officer Daniel Watts_.'"

Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Frost let her mouth hang open. Dean spared them both a glance, then continued to read.

"'_I staked Amy tonight. We'll see if anything else happens. Meantime, we have to leave soon, the police are already asking about us. As soon as Dean's head's better, we'll have to go. Shame, I kind of like_--'." Dean stopped abruptly, his eyes darting down the page as he cleared his throat.

"What?" Sam asked, walking over.

"Nothing, Sam," he said quickly, pulling the book closer to him and reading on. Frost folded her arms and looked at her feet. "'_Everything seems quiet on the zombie front. Looks like Amy was the key. She's staked and we're leaving. Job is finished_.'"

"Except it wasn't," Frost pointed out. "He didn't find who placed the curse in the first place."

"Staking the first zombie should have broken any curse," Dean pointed out.

"Well it didn't work this time. How did Neal come back? Why was he the first?"

"Who knows," Sam sighed. "We've been going round in circles so much this last week I'm starting to get dizzy."

"Yeah well if you go over, don't expect me to catch you," Dean muttered, pre-occupied by his search for more clues in his father's hand-written account.

"_That's_ what brothers are for," Frost said sarcastically. She stopped short with a gasp. "That's what _brothers_ are for!" she cried in vindication.

Sam and Dean looked at her, lost.

"Amy Watts - what was her maiden name?" she demanded. "Perry! Amy Perry! Who was her brother? _Ryan Perry!_" she blurted.

"I don't believe this," Dean grumbled, slapping his hand to his face in a very loud expression of self-kickery.

"You think Amy Perry was the first zombie in '87 because her brother brought her back to avenge her own murder?" Sam hazarded.

"Ryan Perry _must_ have brought her back - Corey's _father_. Is that why he turned his son off Wicca? Why he banned it from Corey's childhood? Cos his sister married into the police force but he thinks Wicca got her killed?" Frost demanded urgently.

"Best idea so far," Dean nodded firmly. Then he raised the journal slightly. "And Dad went through Ryan's things back in 1987, three years after the guy died. It even mentions a cellar under his place - that house right there," he added, nodding to Corey Perry's house, "where Dad thought he'd be keeping all the freaky stuff."

"I'll get a warrant," Frost said quickly.

Dean looked at his watch. "I'll get a crowbar."

"Dean, we're going to get permission to get into his cellar."

"My ass! We're going to kick the door in till all the crap falls out - so we know how he did it and what he did wrong!"

"Bull in a china shop," she snapped.

"Standing around with thumbs up our asses," he shot back.

Sam raised his hands quickly. "Why don't we--"

"You're too impatient!" Frost interrupted.

Dean closed on her. "You're too used to waiting!"

"You're breaking the law!"

"You've been fine with that so far!"

"I don't like your attitude!" she protested with fire.

"You _like_ my attitude! _And_ how I do things!"

"You mean I _like_ the way I _let_ you do things!" she corrected, barely four inches from him.

He pushed his chin out harshly, expecting to drive her back. "You ain't the only one _letting_ stuff happen here!"

But she refused to step back. She leaned her face closer to his in clear defiance. "Seems it's about time you did!"

"Whut's that supposed to--"

"Afraid of losing control?"

"I don't lose control!" he asserted.

"If you ever _did_ let something happen!"

"We're supposed to be working!" he shot back.

"I was _talking_ about working!" she cried angrily. "What were _you_ talking about?"

"Let's just get the damn crowbar and go--"

"This is going too far!"

"You want me to stop?!"

She opened her mouth but halted her reply instantly. She looked at him, mere inches away. She felt the heat in her face, the almost overwhelming urge to grab him as she studied his eyes. She wished they didn't mirror her own needs so exactly.

She forced herself to look away, darting a look over Dean's shoulder to Sam. Dean's eyes slid to his right in abrupt realisation, finding only empty pavement. He cleared his throat, stepping back from her quickly.

Sam raised his hands again, backing away. He came so very close to whistling to pretend he wasn't watching, but instead he turned away quickly and walked to the passenger door of the Impala.

Frost looked at Dean slowly. She waited until she heard the door squeak open and closed on the classic before stepping closer to him. She put a hand up and slid it down his chest firmly.

"We'll continue this later," she breathed.

Dean watched her slide past him and go to her car. He swallowed, letting the adrenaline seep away slowly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, feeling himself start to unwind from the tight knot her proximity had caused. Then he turned to his car and the driver's door, his eyes unconsciously watching the BMW's driver start the engine and check her mirrors. He slid into his own driver's seat, leaning forward to put the keys in the ignition.

Sam cleared his throat quietly.

"Shut up," Dean warned.

"She's got a point, though. Warrants would be easier."

"I know," Dean grumped.

.

* * *

.

Frost slammed the phone down on her desk, cursing. Sam and Dean looked up from their inspection of silver rods and ammunition from their duffles, balanced precariously wherever there was space in the cluttered office.

"What?" Dean asked quickly, studying her annoyed face.

"The warrant will take two days," she spat.

"You're kidding," Sam blurted. "Why?"

"The FBI are interested in how I came to believe something in a cellar under Ryan and now Corey Perry's home might somehow shed light on why people are getting their heads sliced off with shovels," she said deliberately.

"So… they make you wait while they get down there and open it first," Dean realised out loud. He looked at Sam, reaching over and nudging his arm, pointing to the duffles. "Get your crap together, _we're_ getting their first."

"Dean," Frost snapped.

He made a show of dropping his gun into his open duffle, turning slowly. "Yes, _Chief_."

"Look, you might be allowed to gallivant around, crowbarring open whatever you want, but I have to live and work here after you've left again. --Left," she amended quickly.

"That's why you don't have to come," Dean shot back. "We'll go, you stay here and pretend you know nothing, surrounded by witnesses. Plausible deniability," he added.

"What do you mean, I don't have to come? You two are seriously going to find some Wiccan thing in the box and magikally know how to read it?"

"Look, Chief," Sam said soothingly, putting his hands out, "we do know a bit about--"

"Enough to make you dangerous," she interrupted. "The reason we're in the shit in the first place is 'cos Ryan didn't know how to use the tools to begin with!"

"Point taken," Sam allowed. "But it's better on paper if you stay here."

"And the box itself could be cursed. You're safer here," Dean put in.

The moment the words had escaped his mouth, he realised how foolish they had been.

Frost turned her head deliberately slowly, pinning him with a look that would have melted his entire cassette collection.

Sam cleared his throat and put his hands up, stepping back one. "I'll just go, er, get my stuff into the, ah, car," he said loudly, grasping his duffle and retreating from the room. As he opened the door and backed out, he caught the anger about to erupt on Frost's face and sped up.

The door closed and Frost folded her arms slowly. "I'll be _safer_?" she prompted, enunciating every syllable painfully clearly.

Dean huffed and his hands found the hips of his jeans resolutely. "I didn't mean it like that, and you know it."

"I am _not_ waiting here while you two fumble around, possibly making things worse!"

"We're not about to read anything, are we!"

"I'm getting my keys," she warned. Dean grabbed her arm, bringing her to a stop. She looked up at him fiercely.

"Why are you really coming?" he demanded.

"Cos you need me!" she blurted.

Dean's eyes narrowed and he studied her for a long moment. She opened her mouth, sensing his anger had been quashed by something else. Whatever it was, it was making him struggle with something.

"To… point out what's Wiccan and what's not," he breathed uncertainly.

She cleared her throat. "Yes."

His eyes ranged over her face and she waited, wishing she knew what was running through his head. At last he swallowed, nodding slowly, and she waited for him to let go. But instead he pulled her toward him slightly.

"Well let's go then," he allowed. "I just hope there's something in the damn basement after all."

"Me too," she said, expecting to be released so she could head for the door.

But she wasn't.

She waited another beat. Then she turned to face him, watching his eyes on her, waiting for his hand to drop.

But it didn't.

"Is there something else?" she managed quietly.

"Just… be careful," he breathed, his eyes dancing from one of hers to the other. "I don't wanna…"

_Lose me? Oh please, tell me that thought crossed your mind_, she begged silently.

"I don't wanna have to explain to a freakishly young doctor how a police chief got hurt breaking and entering someone's basement, trying to steal a Wiccan box of magik crap," he said, rather gruffly.

The small smile on her lips stretched into a knowing grin. "Sure," she agreed.

She put her hands up to his face, pulling his head toward hers. She kissed him softly, watching his eyes sink closed in a pinched expression that any other day of the week would have indicated pain. Then she pulled his head away, noticing the way his eyes opened and his face collected itself as if it had never been anything but determined. She slid her hands down his front slowly.

"Let's go then," he said clearly, straightening his back.

.

.


	20. How To Get A Head In Hunting

**TWENTY**

**How To Get A Head In Hunting**

.

Sam sneaked his head through the bushes at the back of the house, the near full moon his only light. He checked the storm shutters in the ground, finding them padlocked, and was pulling various picking tools from his pocket as a hand encountered his arm.

He turned slightly. Frost was using him as purchase to squeeze out from the bushes. She bumped into his shoulder then managed to distance herself slightly. She let go of his arm, surveying the garden in front of them.

"Can you get through those?" she whispered, nodding to the wooden doors in the grass.

"Watch me," he allowed, pushing himself out of the hedge and across the lawn.

Her eyes followed him before something nudged into her back. She didn't even turn. "You took your time," she judged.

"Well excuse me all to Hell," Dean grunted in reply, "I'm the one carrying the bag."

"Next time bring a smaller handbag," she smiled to herself, watching Sam pick the padlock.

"Next time my ass," Dean snorted.

"Deal," she grinned, still watching the youngest Winchester. Dean didn't reply but the duffle of weapons and assorted tools was dumped on the ground in front of them. Sam was still fighting with the lock, apparently unimpressed with its stubbornness.

"You know," Dean breathed, his voice a near whisper somewhere behind her left ear, "all I've wanted is to get this case solved."

"You and me both."

"But… if we do find the root of the curse here tonight, and we deal with it…" He paused and she was suddenly very grateful she still had her back to him, certain he couldn't see her face.

"You two will be gone again?"

There was no answer and she dared to turn her head, catching him looking at his feet. She put her hand on his arm, prompting him to look up.

"We both knew," she allowed wisely.

There was a slight chink and they looked over to find Sam pulling chains off the doors as quickly as he could while being quiet. Frost let her hand drop from Dean and stepped out from the bushes, heading for the doors Sam was now opening in the grass.

Dean picked up the bag and followed silently.

Sam and Frost were already down the steps when Dean got to the top. He made his way down carefully, stopping to close the doors over his head. Two torches were already cutting beams of light through the steps and cellar as he shuffled cautiously down to the floor, hefting the bag over his shoulder.

He reached the bottom and walked to a dusty table, plonking the bag down and unzipping it. He fished around and came up with his own Maglite, twisting it on and looking around.

"So… if you laid down a zombie curse, where would you hide the evidence?" Sam was asking softly.

Frost's head tilted as she wandered off toward the far end of what appeared to be an L shape, her flashlight held high. Sam turned in a circle, walking toward a wall of interesting items. He waited until Frost was far enough away that her torch light disappeared round the bend.

"Look, man, about what I said," he managed.

Dean grunted from the other side of the room, looking over the boxes, tins and miscellanea covered in dust.

"She's pretty cool, I understand that," Sam added quietly. "Too well. All I'm saying is, we're going to be out of--"

"Ho-ly crap," Dean interrupted, swinging his light up to Sam's chest. "You! You _are_ sweet on her!" he realised.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sam snorted, smiling awkwardly as he turned away. Dean watched him go, his mouth open slightly, bemused and stunned in equal measure. It was silent for a few moments, during which Sam shuffled away across the room, finding excuses to pick things up.

"Ouch," Dean blinked, wonder in his voice. "Now I get it. Now I see why you were on my case about her." But the anger Sam was expecting was completely missing.

"Because you were supposed to be working," Sam said stiffly.

"I was working. Flat out," Dean asserted, then hissed at himself, looking at his feet. "I didn't mean to--." He looked up, knowing that even though Sam had his back to him, the younger man was still trying not to let his upset travel over his face. "Sam--"

"Dean. It's fine."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Well… I didn't realise that… you, ah…"

"Dean. Forget it," Sam breezed, keeping his face averted.

"I'm just saying, if I'd known you--"

"I said--"

"_Oh_-kay," Dean nodded quickly. He turned back to the workbench nearest him, picking up a tin in a decidedly half-hearted manner. He heard movement and looked over, recognising that his younger brother was doing the exact same thing, and apparently, with the same intentions. "Sammy?"

"What." It wasn't a question, but the tone of voice was still close to the happy temperature at which a beer was kept at in the boot of the Impala.

"Just… forget it, ok? I get it, you get it, everyone gets it. Let's just finish this gig so we can stop having chick flick moments in some dude's basement."

Sam turned slightly, smiling. "Sounds good. Now if we only knew what we were looking for, we might have a chance."

"Well lookie what I have here," came Frost's sing-song, deliberate voice.

Both boys turned their Maglites in her direction, finding her stood at the far end of the room with a wooden box in her right hand.

"What is it?" Sam asked immediately.

Frost walked up to the bench at the side of the room, placing the box down and shining her torch at it.

"This," she said quietly, blowing on it to get rid of a little grime, "is a small brown box with Wiccan designs on the lid."

"Bingo?" Dean offered hopefully.

"More like Pingo," she observed dryly, and the two boys exchanged a confused glance. "It's not real Wicca. It's a copy - a poor one. Someone _thinks_ they know about this stuff, but actually? They've copied out the wrong symbols on the lid."

"So we were right - Ryan Perry's done this and he's got it all ass-about-face," Dean nodded. He put his hand down to the lid but Frost grabbed his wrist, keeping it at bay.

"Ah-ah-ah," she chided, and Dean pulled his hand back slowly. She let go of him, instead turning the box around and checking all the side panels.

"What is it, a jack-in-the-box booby trap?" Dean muttered thoughtfully.

"No. It's got some kind of… goo on it."

"Goo?" Sam echoed, walking closer too. "Is that a technical term?"

One Winchester head appeared over each of her shoulders, watching her avidly as she picked up a dusty screwdriver from the bench next to the box and levered the lid open.

Sam and Dean angled their Maglites at the contents, puzzled.

"It's empty," Dean observed. "Son of a bitch - it's empty."

"Wait," Sam said quickly, reaching round Frost's left side with his hand. He grasped the lid and opened it up further. Frost shone her Maglite at the inside of the lid.

"Nice one, Sammy-Sam-Samuel," she smiled, bending over to read the words carved neatly into the underside of the wood. She blinked, then lifted her chin slightly. "Dean."

"What?"

"Don't put your hand there," she instructed clearly.

Dean just raised both hands in innocence. "That ain't my hand."

Sam tutted but Frost put a hand down behind her, finding whatever it was that was nudging her from behind. Dean jumped slightly but Frost frowned in confusion. Then her face cleared abruptly.

"Oh," she offered lamely. "That really _is_ a gun in your pocket."

"Don't be looking at me, you knew I was back here," Dean sniffed defensively. "Now can we please read the squiggly writing stuff?"

Frost let go of the hard edge to the Colt 1911 and bent again to read the inscription.

"I'm afraid that's going to be impossible," she sighed. She straightened, turning to Sam. "I think you might have better luck - I've never seen anything like that before."

"It's not Wiccan?" Dean asked quickly, slewing round her to see for himself.

"No, it's not. I have no idea what it is."

"Let me see," Sam said professionally, and Dean and Frost backed out of his way. Sam studied it for a long moment, then he began to grin. "No way," he snorted, shaking his head. "Dean, look at this."

He moved to one side and Dean shone his Maglite over the carvings. "I have no idea--. Wait." He frowned to himself. "Where have we seen this before?"

"Years ago," Sam smiled. "The guy who was in love with that girl, she died, he brought her back as that whacked-out, bloodthirsty zombie? I was looking at Mom's grave, you were looking for anything else to do that meant you could stay away from it?"

"Thanks," Dean winced, bending closer to look, "I remember now." He peered at the carvings again before he froze for a second. He lifted his chin to look at the wall stoicly, and Sam waited for the newsflash. But instead Dean's voice came out gruff, if a tiny bit amused. "Nara," he said clearly. "Not now."

Frost lifted both her hands and took a step back, attempting to keep her face straight. Sam swallowed and his eyes felt like they needed exercise. They high-fived each other and took off running, squealing and shouting in joy at their sudden release, haring round the three hundred and sixty degree track as fast as they could go. They landed back at the start line, dropping to the ground and laughing in pure enjoyment, glad to have had a moment of unadulterated physical exercise.

Dean cleared his throat and looked back at the box lid. "So how does this help us?"

"It doesn't," Sam shrugged, crushed. "If it's a curse, Dad broke it when he staked Amy - or we broke it when we staked Neal. If it's a command to bring fallen people back to life, then it's never going to stop."

"But we haven't had any new deaths since James and his wife," Frost pointed out. "So why did it stop?"

"Why did it _start_?" Dean sighed.

Sam turned away, pacing the room slowly as his Maglite showed the way. "Right. If Ryan Perry did this to avenge his sister, he would have wanted it to kill whomever killed his sister, right?"

"Right," Dean shrugged.

"But instead it killed - who?" Frost asked.

Sam dug in his pocket for his notebook, putting it on the workbench and flipping through it. "Instead, it killed Peter Barrington, his wife Susan Watts - daughter of Amy Perry's former husband and new wife Caitlin Gallagher. Then the new wave killed Neal, Hannah Barrington, Annette Watts and James and Melanie Harrison."

"Who?" Dean asked.

"Melanie Harrison - James' wife. The one you thought was me," Frost supplied quietly.

"Oh. Carry on," Dean said, waving a hand at Sam.

"You know what I don't get?" Frost asked suddenly.

"The same pay level as the previous Chief of police?" Dean hazarded.

"Apart from that," she said dismissively. "No, what I don't get it why the curse, if it were laid by Ryan Perry, would kill Neal. He _was_ his own grandson, after all."

"That's an excellent point," Dean said, pleased, pointing at her with his Maglite. "And I think we'd all be able to think much better if we took that box out of this '_Within The Woods_' fruit cellar and got us some coffee and pie."

"No no no no no," Sam hissed suddenly, turning to look at his brother. "No!"

"Alright, then we just get coffee--"

"No! Ryan Perry did this, he wanted to kill whomever killed his sister!" Sam gasped.

"Yes, we've established that--" Dean began.

"But he screwed it up somehow and it went wrong - it didn't kill the murderer, it killed their _children_," Sam rattled off. "Amy Perry/Watts was killed in 1956 - _1956_!"

"Wow, a whole year after Marty McFly introduces Chuck Berry to the world," Dean said sarcastically. "_What?_"

"Numbers, Dean, it's all numbers," Sam asserted. "1956, Ryan Perry wants to curse the Thirteen. _Thirteen_."

"He screwed up," Frost whispered. "He somehow got the Thirteen mixed up with _thirty-one_."

"What?" Dean demanded, now staring at them both with confusion. "Could you explain for the dumbasses among us please?"

"1956 plus thirty-one years," Sam said patiently. "1987."

"So instead of ganking Thirteen Wiccan people in 1956, he ended up ganking their descendants thirty-one years later?" Dean guessed.

"Yes! And when another of the Perrys died - Neal - it started all over again!" Sam hissed.

"But Neal wasn't killed, he had a car accident," Frost pointed out.

"Unless that Wiccan tree of yours jumped out in front of his car and introduced him to the Maiden/Mother/Crone's mischievous side at fifty miles an hour," Dean joked.

There was a long silence.

And then all three of them shook their heads quickly, as if rehearsed.

"That's not how Wicca works--"

"Trees don't jump--"

"I've got to stop being facetious," Dean nodded. "It freaks me out."

There was another silence, until Sam cleared his throat. "So where does that leave us?"

"In a dank basement without coffee or pie," Dean said darkly. "Can we take that box and get out of here now?"

"Dean's right. We need to see that thing in proper light, you need to translate it, and then we need to undo it," Frost nodded at Sam.

"Yes Chief," he smiled, flipping the lid closed and picking it up gingerly. "Let's get to work."

.

.


	21. Hubble Bubble, Toil And Shovel

**TWENTY-ONE**

**Hubble Bubble, Toil And Shovel**

.

Sam plonked himself down at the wooden table, opening his laptop and switching it on.

"You get deciphering, I'll get food and coffee," Dean nodded, patting his younger brother on the shoulder firmly.

"Are you going to need some help carrying all that?" Frost asked professionally, looking around their dingy motel room, her hand still on the open door.

"Wouldn't say no," Dean allowed, heading back toward the door, and by extension, her.

"That's your trouble," Sam breathed to himself.

"What?" Dean asked, turning back to him.

"I said, use a bit of hussle. This won't take long," he bluffed.

"Okie dokie," Dean shrugged, following Frost out of the door and closing it behind them.

Sam sighed, wiped a hand over his face, and found the laptop ready. He reached for Dean's duffle, finding the wooden box and pulling it out slowly, careful not to get his fingers in the sticky patches. He opened it up and surveyed the inscription again, determined.

"The quicker I get this done," he muttered to himself, "the quicker we leave. And we put this _all_ behind us."

He sniffed and got to work.

.

* * *

.

Dean walked back to the Impala, a flat plastic stirrer in his teeth and his hands full of coffee cups. Frost followed, two large brown bags in her hands.

"It's never broken down," she was saying with a shrug.

"Not yet. I heard there was a problem with some of the ignition systems on that year's Beemer, though," Dean offered past his coffee stirrer, halting at the car and setting a cup on the roof, fishing in his pocket for his keys.

Frost waited patiently at the passenger door. "And this car never breaks down?"

"Never," he said firmly, shooting her a look over the roof. She smiled sweetly, tilting her head at him. He just rolled his eyes and unlocked the door, opening it before taking his coffee off the roof. "And she'll still be going when your Beemer's being sold for scrap," he added.

He put the cups on the dashboard, leaning across and unlocking the passenger door. Frost put her hand down and managed to open it with bags in her hands, sliding into the seat. She passed one bag to Dean before pulling her door shut. Dean was already turning and sitting the bag on the back seat, and Frost waited until he was the right way round again before putting the other bag over there too. She reached up and took the cups from the dashboard.

"Maybe. But I _like_ my BMW. It's… official," she smiled.

"It's got no character though," Dean teased, putting his keys in the ignition.

"But it does have a parts and labour warranty still on it," she replied knowingly. "And who fixes this classic when it needs it?"

"You're looking at him," Dean sniffed, turning the key to start the engine. It purred into glorious, guttural life and a beatific smile erupted over his face.

"Hmm. I can just picture you all covered in grease and sweat," she allowed. He slid his eyes to her but she looked out of her side window suddenly. "Motel," she commanded. "Sam will be waiting for us."

"Yeah," he allowed on a sigh, looking over his shoulder to reverse the car back and round.

"You know, when I got my BMW, I never thought I'd end up keeping it," she said thoughtfully.

"Oh?" he managed, checking traffic and heading out onto the main road.

"No. In fact, at first, it annoyed me. It was all European, so the stalks and buttons were in the wrong places."

"Don't you hate it when that happens?"

"But over time… I got used to it. I like it. I _really_ like it," she sighed. "I can't imagine not having it here. I'll be really upset when he's gone."

"He?"

"It," she corrected quickly. She cleared her throat. "It."

Dean shifted slightly in the driver's seat, his hands sliding round and down the steering wheel a little way. "Look, Nara…"

"Dean, don't. Just drive," she said with false cheer.

He spared her a glance, then directed his attention back to the busy road.

"This… thing we've got? It's just something to keep us occupied, amused," she added firmly. "It's no big thing. It's not like we could do anything about it even if it weren't."

"That's right," he nodded, relieved. "It's just for fun."

"And you _are_ fun," she smiled, looking to the window. "Serious fun." Her smile died slowly as silence blanketed the car with ease.

Dean sneaked a look at her, then watched the car in front of him, his face carefully impassive. Eventually he opened his mouth. "If I could, I'd…" His voice trailed away to nothing but she waited. He cleared his throat. "If I could, well… I'd maybe hang around for a while."

"And you can't because?"

"Things need doing," he bit out. "Big things."

"Big things like the big thing you and I aren't?" she teased.

"_Everything_ you and I aren't," he sighed. "Sometimes I'm tired of all this and you're exactly what I'd want for--" He stopped himself. He tightened his grip on the wheel, she noticed. "But I can't. I just can't, you know?"

She watched him but he didn't acknowledge her stare. She lifted her hand, placing it on his leg and squeezing gently before she drew it away again.

"Yeah. I know," she allowed quietly. "Much as I want to, or need to… there are some things I just shouldn't say. To you."

Dean glanced at her, his face troubled. Then he was watching the traffic again, a long moment passed in silence until he cleared his throat quietly. "That thing you shouldn't say? To me?" he prompted.

"Yes."

"Well I… I shouldn't say it too," he allowed. "To you. In fact," he added with a slight, daring smile, "I'm _not_ saying it right now."

She reached out and patted his leg. "Drive," she grinned, never happier to sit in silence.

.

* * *

.

Dean opened the motel room door, balancing three coffee cups on top of each other as he held the door open for Frost. She carried the two large bags in, depositing them next to Sam's laptop and looking at him expectantly.

"Hey," Dean called, closing the door behind him. "Anything?"

Sam sat back, rubbing an eye. "Ooooh yeah. I've got a translation. You're not going to like it."

"Aw don't tell me that," Dean moaned.

Frost cast her eyes over the screen but couldn't make anything out. "What's the problem?" she asked directly. Dean approached his seated brother from the other side to Frost, looking down at the screen.

"Amy Perry," Sam said slowly. "She was pretty much named in the original curse - the usage is a little odd, but it's definitely about her taking revenge with supernatural aid. She's the key."

"But Dad staked her in 1987," Dean said patiently. "She's deader than this place on a Friday night - twice."

Frost folded her arms. "So if she's the key, why is this still happening?"

"Because staking is not going to work on these guys."

"Guys?" Dean echoed. "Plural?"

"Plural. The protected ones, the ones who are going to keep coming back every time a Perry is harmed."

"But Amy didn't come back this time, only in '87," Frost pointed out.

"Because she'd been staked. It stopped her, but not the curse. When Neal died by accident, he took over. It's on the whole Perry family, and if we don't stop it, they will come back and start killing anyone from the Gallagher lines," Sam asserted.

"Dude, there's no-one left from the Gallagher lines or the Perrys," Dean tutted. "Apart from Corey Perry. Oh."

"Exactly. When he dies, it starts again."

"They'll go after Amber," Frost said quietly. The two boys looked at her. She noticed she was being watched. "Amber Kerr - the old woman who lives opposite me. Dean - you spoke to her about covens, I think? A while ago?"

"Yeah - nice old broad," Dean shrugged.

"She's Melanie's mother - Melanie who married James Harrison and got killed for it."

"Damn! So anyone at all who was married in, sons or daughters of, yadda yadda yadda - they're all on the Hit List if Corey dies?" Dean grumbled.

"_When_ Corey dies, yes," Sam nodded. He looked at Frost. "If there's really no-one left to kill, they might get desperate and start looking further afield - like people _close_ to those of the Gallagher lines."

"What does that mean?" Frost asked warily.

"It means the undead army killed James and Melanie, who had no kids. So when they run out of things to decapitate, they might come for you, seeing as you would be the next best thing to James' family," Dean allowed.

"Oh. Shit," she realised.

"Yeah." Dean pouted for a long moment. "So the question remains… How do we kill a curse that gets passed to every damn member of the family? I for one do not want an undead Corey Perry popping up in a few years."

Frost shivered suddenly, tightening the fold to her arms. She looked at Sam steadily. "Do you have an idea?"

"Maybe," he allowed quietly. "I'm just not sure it's going to work."

"Anything," Dean said suddenly.

Sam didn't look at him, turning back to his laptop. "Ryan Perry laid the curse on Amy. We find her and… remove the inscription from the inside of her coffin."

"While we're there, why not salt and burn her, too? Just to be on the safe side," Dean added.

Sam and Frost looked at him, surprised.

"Why not?" he protested. "I ain't digging the old girl up just to desecrate the lid and put her back. I say we do it right."

Sam shrugged innocently. "Well ok. So let's get to the cemetery and find her lot."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean nodded. He lifted his wrist and checked the time. "Eat first. Corey's not going to die in the next few hours. We need food and sleep - then when it gets dark, we get over there and dig Amy up."

Frost looked around the motel room. "If it's all the same to you two, I think I'll go home. No offence to this cheap and cheerful motel, but my bed's much more comfortable."

"Keep your phone on," Sam nodded. He turned back to his laptop, pressing keys to make it shut down, and Dean looked from him to Frost and back again.

"I'll go with her," he announced, already heading to the door.

Sam raised his head but didn't turn. "Why? She'll be safe if Corey Perry doesn't bite it."

"You want me to draw you a diagram?" Dean said deliberately. "I'll have my phone." He put his hand in his pocket, finding his car keys and tossing them at his brother. He didn't look at him as he turned and picked up a brown paper take-out bag, walking from the motel room.

Sam looked at the keys in his hand, his eyebrows frowning for him in a way that Frost felt all too clearly. She walked up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He dared to meet her eyes.

"This will all be over soon," she said quietly. "And you two will be gone."

Sam sighed out all of his anger, all his stubbornness, all his grudging petulance and nodded, deciding to let it go.

"Yeah. I know," he said gently. "Just… make sure he keeps his phone on?"

"For you, Sammy-Sam-Samuel? Of course," she smiled, patting his shoulder. Then she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

.

* * *

.

The BMW pulled up alongside the Impala, both engines cutting out abruptly. Doors opened and the three dark figures converged on the gates to the cemetery in the blackness engulfing midnight.

"So do we know where Amy's buried?" Dean asked quietly, shouldering the duffle and twisting at his Maglite to produce a small beam of light.

Frost, next to him, felt in her pocket for her own small torch. She looked at Sam, who was fiddling with his flashlight to get it to work.

"She should be at the far end, on the left side somewhere," he said, pre-occupied. Frost took the Maglite from him and twisted it deftly, handing it back to him, now illuminating his feet. "Thanks," he managed quietly.

They turned and walked through the gates, keeping off the neat grass as they walked silently. The cool night air pressed against their faces with purpose, and suddenly every tiny sound, every slight movement around them caught their attention.

Frost's hand stole up and wrapped round the crook of Dean's arm holding his duffle in place, her left hand going in her pocket and retrieving her torch. She hefted it in her hand, more to reassure herself than to prepare to activate the light.

Sam pulled out in front eagerly, his longer strides taking him to the far end of the cemetery before the others. He crossed onto the grass gingerly, shining his light around the assorted crumbling headstones.

Dean and Frost caught up, the police chief letting her hand fall from Dean's elbow. She didn't look at him, turning her torch on and starting to search carefully. Dean stood back, looked at Sam and Frost, and then turned to his right, trying not to overlap their search patterns.

Frost stopped suddenly. "Got it!" she called hoarsely. "Amy Watts, née Perry, 1930 - 1956," she added.

Sam and Dean came over quickly before Sam waved them away from the headstone.

"Right. Dig," he commanded.

Dean dropped the duffle and crouched, pulling out lengths of pipe. Frost picked up two of them and fitted them together to make a spade, screwing them in tightly before turning it to the grass over the approximate area of the grave. Sam took two more lengths from the duffle, eyeing the way the woman went at the grass.

"Slow down," he advised. "It's going to be a while."

"I do not want to be in this creepy place any longer than I have to," she said firmly, slamming the spade back into the dirt again. "Besides, there are only two shovels. When I get tired, Blond Boy Wonder here can do the rest."

Sam looked at Dean, amused, before pulling off his jacket and dropping it on his brother's head. Dean yanked it off but was content to watch Sam and Frost dig away.

Presently, Frost did indeed get tired and handed the spade to Dean. He got up obediently and started digging, while Sam took a few minutes' rest to look around the graveyard. He sniffed to himself, looking at his watch and making it out to be going up to one in the morning. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, looking again at the trough they had made and starting again. Dean hammered his spade down and it thunked into something solid.

He straightened, suitably tired, sniffing and getting some breath back.

"So here she is," he breathed, tossing his shovel out of the hole and climbing out. He crouched over the duffle, rifling through it.

"How do we get the inscriptions off?" Frost asked from her crouch on the opposite side.

Dean looked over at her, but his mouth hung open, frozen, as his eyes floated over her shoulder.

"What?" she asked suddenly. "What?"

"I see a bad dude rising," Dean managed, nodding slowly at her shoulder.

Sam's head popped up from inside the grave, looking at Dean. Then his eyes went past him in surprise. Frost stood quickly, looking all around them in fright.

Every grave had a single hand poking up through the grass. The limbs squirmed and fought their way up, breaking the turf and causing large sinkholes. Dean got to his feet, reaching over and grabbing Frost's arm. He hauled her over to the same side as himself, already bending down again to the duffle.

"Bloody hell!" she breathed in fear. "How do you crawl out of a grave like that!" She eyed the shifting, collapsing grass around them.

"Very easily," Dean said. "Doesn't take long if you really want to get out."

"And you know that because?" she demanded, trying to use the absurdity to keep a tight rein on her fear.

"Sam - get that lid open!" Dean ordered thickly.

.

.


	22. Hearts vs Heads Away Game

**TWENTY-TWO**

**Hearts v Heads (Away Game)**

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Grass, turf, everything was ripped aside, hands reaching up through the earth. They struggled and second hands appeared, then arms and elbows. The graves fell in on themselves, grimy cadavers in various states of decomposition pushing themselves up and out of their foetid prisons.

Inside Amy Perry's grave, Sam dropped the shovel. His hands scrabbled at the edge of the coffin. He found the lip and yanked but the lid wouldn't open.

Dean pulled a rod from his duffle, tossing it at Frost. She caught it awkwardly, passing it to her left hand to study it. She looked up as Dean pulled out another rod, getting to his feet and grasping her arm.

"You stay that side," he ordered. "Anything that ain't Sam or me, stake it. And remember: they're faster than they look."

She simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched him take up a position on the other side of the open grave, hefting the silver bar in his right hand.

"Sam?" Dean demanded.

"I'm trying!" Sam protested, yanking harder at the lid. "It's not moving!"

"Why are we surrounded by extras from _Shaun of the Dead_?" Dean called back. "I thought it was just Perrys and their victims that came back!"

"I - don't - know," Sam grunted, shifting his grip and trying again with the lid.

"Maybe we tripped some kind of security alarm," Frost blinked.

Dean turned and looked at her - just looked. She realised he was staring at her as if she had two heads and shrugged lamely. She looked down into the grave.

"It's locked!" she observed.

"It's _what_?" Dean demanded. "Who the hell--"

"Dad?" Sam spluttered. "Why would--"

"Cut it open!" Frost cried in frustration.

Sam's hands appeared out of the grave as Dean turned and pushed the duffle at him with his boot. It fell in and Sam began to rummage inside.

"Looks like a quarter-inch padlock," Frost said helpfully. "You'll need a--" She turned quickly as she heard movement. "Bloody hell!" she exploded.

A tall, almost grey man was standing right in front of her. The flesh was falling from him as he moved. She stared for a long moment. His hands shot up toward her neck.

She didn't think. She hammered the stake into him desperately, kicking his feet out from under him. He fell and she landed her weight on the stake. He rattled and lay still.

She heard grunting and struggling. She looked up to see Dean similarly despatching a member of the walking dead. She spied shoes next to her hand on the grass and got up quickly. She backed up one to give herself room to strike at the woman watching her.

Sam wrenched the bolt cutters from the duffle. He turned and attacked the padlock hoop, exerting the entire pressure of a desperate Winchester. The bolt cutters rolled up their sleeves and took a deep breath, determined to get the job done. They flexed and bit, squeezing harder than they had ever done before.

The blades slipped off and the bolt cutters leapt from Sam's hand, lying in the disturbed dirt by his feet, whimpering in shame at their ineptitude. He picked them up and flung the soil from them, trying again with the lock.

Dean yanked the silver rod free of a teenage boy's chest, wincing on the inside. He pushed him with a grunt and the dead undead toppled over. A man was right behind him. Dean stepped over the boy and attacked the taller assailant. He heard a female cry but slammed the rod home. He twisted to look behind him quickly. He saw Frost pinned under a hefty man who was shedding skin and lumps of flesh as she struggled to get purchase on him.

Dean twisted the silver rod into his own attacker. His elbow went into the dead man's chest and he freed the rod with an angry grunt that Sam heard all the way from the belligerent coffin. Dean turned and began to scramble round the grave to Frost's side.

But her boot came up and squelched directly into the man's stomach. It was sucked in until it connected with his spine. She heaved and he flew up and off her. The second his back hit the ground she leapt on him and drove the stake right through his chest area.

Dean put his left palm out and she grabbed it with her empty right, hauling herself to her feet.

"And that's why," she panted, checking the end of the dripping stake, "I never bother getting new shoes."

Dean pulled on her palm still using his as support. She jerked to one side and heard the squelch of rod and flesh. She felt his grip stronger on her hand as she turned and drove her stake up. It hit a ribcage and kept on going up. It came out the front of the breastplate and she pulled it back down and out.

She held tight to the hand of the real human, determined she would need the leverage. He moved and stood with his back against hers, obviously of the same opinion. They looked around, realising they were being converged upon and the ranks were getting deeper than just two on each side. She let Dean's hand go and instead her arm snaked through his, keeping them stronger together. Her stake flew up and into the front of a decidedly used looking female cadaver. Dean's free arm was already shoving forwards.

"Sam?" Dean called. "Come on, man!"

"It won't open!" Sam shouted back, his voice thick with anger and frustration.

"Is it protected?" Frost managed, ducking a swipe from a dead hand.

"Check for magic seals or something!" Dean added.

Frost was pulled forwards sharply. Dean was hauled backwards. He refused to let go. She fell to her knees in the damp grass. His arm was wrenched free from hers but his hand managed to clamp onto her sleeve to stop her pitching over onto her face. Two grey male hands clamped round her neck.

Dean turned and plunged the rod into the man's neck. The corpse tried to reach for it. Dean let go of Frost to grasp the man's front. He turned his grip on the rod and hauled it out. The neck was sliced right through. The head fell clear. The hands flailed. Dean impaled the chest before the cadaver fell backwards.

Frost caught at Dean's arm to get back to her feet, brandishing her rod.

"It's a good job I know another side of you," she breathed fearfully. "Otherwise I might mistake you for a bloodthirsty rod-wielding maniac."

Dean didn't turn to look at her. "Duffle. Another rod. Get it!"

She turned and landed by the grave mouth. She slid down inside and snatched up the duffle from the top of the coffin.

"Any luck?" she hurled at Sam.

He was bending down by the side, shining a Maglite at something with great concentration.

"No… I don't know these…"

"Shit. Well make something up then," she snapped. She hauled a fresh rod from the duffle, then paused before pulling out another one. "Is this it?"

"Normally that's enough," Sam muttered, pre-occupied.

Frost huffed, grasping the two rods in one hand and climbing back out of the grave.

She looked up, finding close to twenty cadavers still surrounding them - two more on Dean.

She jumped in fright, taking a stake in each hand and ploughing right in. Dean drove his arm into one man and he fell. Frost's stake ripped through another chest and the female cadaver of indeterminate age also plunged to the grass.

Dean turned to Frost, wiping his forehead. "Thanks."

"Help Sam. He can't get the lid open," she nodded. Her eyes over his shoulder widened. He turned quickly, slamming his silver bar into the man about to grab him. He twisted it free as he heard movement and more squelching behind him.

"You really think--" Dean paused to haul a girl straight in front of him, ramming the stake into her hurriedly, "-- that I'd know how to read a protection spell Sam doesn't?"

Frost's reply was lost in angry staking for a second. Then she regrouped, panting at him. "I didn't say you'd know how to read it," she gasped, "but you'll figure something out."

Dean's eyebrows scrambled up the incline of his brow, apparently just as surprised as he was at her level of trust. He grabbed one more zombie, hacking the silver bar now covered in all manner of unmentionable matter into the chest cavity.

"I'll be quick," he managed. His hand brushed her arm as he passed her, skidding to the edge of the grave and dropping in. "Sam!" he barked.

"I can't read it," Sam protested, looking up over the coffin edge quickly. "I can't get it open!"

"Get out, help Nara," he demanded, throwing the silver stake at him.

"_You're_ going to read it?" Sam gasped, already turning for the side of the grave.

Dean's eyes fell on the duffle. "Nope," he said decisively, fishing around inside the bag quickly to come up with a large jerry can of salt and a bottle of lighter fluid. "I don't have to."

"You can't--"

"If the coffin's burnt, the seal goes up too, right?" Dean demanded, already shaking the salt out in large swathes over the lid. He flicked the cap clean off the bottle with this thumb, squeezing the fluid all over the wooden coffin and its new salt-frosted coating.

"But--"

"_Just go! She's up there by herself!_"

Sam scrambled up and out of the hole. He covered the few feet to Frost instantly, yanking a tall man off her and plunging the stake into him. She didn't even stop. She simply got a better hold on the other zombie clawing at her and rammed her stake into him. It came free of her hand as he dropped.

Sam stepped in front of her, flipping the rod round deftly and pushing it into the woman reaching for them. Frost stepped back, trying to find a rod. She spied a shovel and snatched it up.

"That's not going to--" Sam began, as she stepped round his side, hefting the spade in her hands.

"You're right."

She looked down at the shovel before grasping its wooden handle firmly. She slammed it down over her knee, managing to almost snap it evenly. The iron head swung loose and she let it to the ground, putting her scuffed boot on it and yanking at the wooden handle. It came away and she bent to pick up the head.

"What about iron?" she asked innocently of a gaping Sam. He shut his mouth and nodded quickly. "Sam!"

He turned and swiped his bar at a teenage girl reaching for him. Frost got up quickly, turning to ram her spade head into the chest of a grasping cadaver so decomposed it was impossible to tell the gender.

A bright light brought their attention. Sam and Frost looked over to see Dean crawling up out of the grave, now alight. He scrambled clear, turning to watch the grave suddenly _whoomf_ into a fierce blaze.

"Hope you didn't leave anything valuable in there," he observed.

They three of them looked around the graveyard hastily. Corpses began to drop where they stood, slamming into the ground, once more lifeless. The sudden quiet and stillness was unnerving as the three living people got their breath back, watching the fire and eyeing the cadavers in case they spied the tiniest of movements from them.

Sam dropped his silver rod, Frost letting go of her spade head. Dean got to his feet slowly, dusting himself off and checking the other two were still standing.

"And that," he said clearly, "is the end of that."

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* * *

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Sam and Dean walked up the long path to the house, appreciating the peaceful air to the cool Thursday morning. The front door opened and Dean smiled slightly as he stepped over the circle scored into the stone step.

"How long are you off work?" Sam asked with a smile, as Frost beckoned them through to the kitchen.

"I have a few days of leave left over and as my office is being redecorated I thought it would make sense to take them now," she beamed. "Couldn't have come at a better time - I am officially shocked and appalled that, according to a report on my desk when I put my second in charge this morning, some bunch of random hooligans desecrated the entire cemetery last night. I could not believe the statement describing the mess the caretaker found at the graveyard this morning," she grinned.

Dean chuckled slightly. "So it's cool?"

"Everything's taken care of," she allowed, backing away and leaning on the kitchen counter. "The police are making house calls, trying to find out who would have done such a thing to so many graves last night. I have assigned my two dullest, most unimaginative men to head the case, and pretty soon it will all be stamped as 'crazy but harmless' and filed under 'who cares in the grand scheme of things anyway'."

"You are something else," Sam snorted with amusement, shaking his head. "You know… if you ever get tired of police work, being a hunter isn't so bad," he teased. Dean looked at him in surprise. Sam shrugged at him with complete and utter innocence.

"Oh please," Frost sighed. "One night of bloody corpses and mayhem is enough. I think I've used up all the adrenaline I could produce for the next few years in one night. If I had to do it again, I'd stay out of it and just call you two," she said firmly.

"Sam's right," Dean said quietly. "You did pretty good."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Doing that every weekend would seriously age me." She paused to let her face soften slightly. "And it's not my life."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"So anyways… thanks for, ah, staking dead people. And all your help here," Sam said cheerfully.

"This is my town, Sam," she allowed. "I know these people - or at least, I thought I did." She paused, regarding her feet before she looked up and realised the boys were watching her with almost matching apologetic faces. She cleared her throat. "So… this is goodbye then?"

"Ah… yeah," Sam allowed, before taking the coward's way out and backing up to the door slightly.

Frost looked at Dean. "So it's all finally over? Everyone's dead - for good this time - and it's all taken care of?"

"Looks that way," he allowed.

"No unfinished business?" she asked gamely.

"None," Dean nodded seriously.

"No worries about what we might have missed?"

"Nope."

"I see."

"I don't think you do." Dean paused, then pushed a hand at his nose. He sniffed to himself, watching his feet suddenly.

"Well then," Frost allowed with a cheerful smile. "I shan't hold you two up. You obviously have big things to be getting on with."

Sam straightened as she advanced on him.

"Bye then, Sammy-Sam-Samuel," she grinned, putting her arms out. Sam smiled, enveloping her in his long arms and hugging her tightly. "Look after you and your idiot brother," she teased.

"I'll try. It's a full time job these days," he agreed.

She pulled him back, patting at his chest with a charming tease of a chuckle. She turned on Dean. "So," she said politely.

"So," Dean nodded, his face impassive.

"Bye then," she nodded.

"Yup. Bye," he shrugged.

She swung her arms slowly, banging her closed fists together expectantly.

Dean started toward the door. She drifted forwards and met him halfway, her hands on his arms. Their lips found each other's with a softness that sent raging embarrassment up Sam's spine.

He cleared his throat politely, watching his feet rather studiously as he backed up to the doorjamb. Half a minute later Dean managed to tear his head from Frost's. They looked at each other in silence. Finally Dean pulled in a slight breath, nodding slightly.

"Uh, Sam?" he breathed. Then he cleared his throat, strengthening his voice. "Give me a minute."

"_One_ minute?" he challenged maliciously.

Dean did not look away from the police chief. She was watching him with her lip in her teeth.

"Yeah."

"Ok," Sam shrugged. "I'll be in the car. If you're not out in five I'll start pulling tape from cassettes to amuse myself."

He turned and walked from the room, closing it quietly but nevertheless hastily behind him. Dean didn't hesitate. His hand went into Frost's hair and he bit at her urgently. She grinned against his mouth, grasping his jacket and pushing it off his shoulders.

He yanked it off, dropping it to the floor behind him as her hands went into his hair. His own hand went into his jeans pocket and he pulled out his phone. His thumb pressed at buttons as his other hand found her jaw. He pulled her away gently, watching her eyes and slapping the phone to his ear.

"Sam?" he growled down the phone. Frost grinned slyly, leaning in and sliding her lips down his free ear.

"Yeah?" came Sam's response.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as her teeth found his jaw. "Ah - ah - look, go and do something - get in some research or uh, something," he managed, opening his eyes.

"You sure?" Sam asked critically.

"Oh yeah," Dean breathed. Frost pulled her head back, her nose brushing his slightly. He raised his chin clear of the temptation. "Go," he urged down the phone.

"Ok," Sam sighed. "I'm taking the car," he added maliciously.

"Great," Dean rumbled, her hands on his chest, sliding his heavy plaid shirt open to his shoulders.

"Great?" Sam wondered.

"Go. Do some research, then eat or - or - somethin'," Dean advised, his free hand in Frost's side pulling her closer. "And then watch a movie."

"What?" Sam spluttered.

"A _long_ one," Dean added quickly, lifting the phone slightly to crush his mouth against hers eagerly.

"You expect me to go fill my afternoon so you can get--"

"Then call me!" Dean commanded. He snapped the phone shut and simply tossed it over his shoulder.

It landed on his jacket comfortably. Frost grabbed his shirt and ripped it down his arms. It fell free and he pulled her t-shirt off over head briskly. She chuckled, tugging his off and flinging it somewhere she did not care to think about.

The phone, lying on his jacket, began to ring.

No-one answered it.

Not for four hours.

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**FIN**

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_And that's a wrap! Took me 22 chapters and a lot of RSI, but I did it. :) I promise the next one will be shorter - in fact, I know it will, as it's pretty much finished and I just have to polish the damn thing. Thanks for all the reviews, comments, support, (**and for tolerating/liking Chief Frost!**) and I'll see you all again really soon. **THANK YOU**._


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